Holmes is where the heart is
by Rose de Sharon
Summary: Three years after the Reichenbach Fall. On the anniversary of Sherlock's death, John pays a visit at 221 B Baker Street… and he gets the shock of his life. S/J bromance, no slash.
1. Nevermore

**Holmes is where the heart is**

by Rose de Sharon

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Sherlock TV show, which is too bad but that's the way it goes!

**Author's notes:**

- This fanfiction is inspired by the story "The empty house", written around 1903 by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859 – 1930).

- "The Raven" is a poem published in 1845 and written by American author Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849).

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Nevermore<strong>

Doctor John Watson was strolling down the streets of London, a walking stick in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in another. His gait was strong but his right leg was limping, a souvenir of an ill-fated campaign in Afghanistan during his former military career. The limp was partly psychosomatic and, for a time, John had thought it had been cured by sharing a flat with the most eccentric, impossible, wonderful genius the world had ever seen. But alas, three years ago, this man had fallen to his death, leaving a grief-stricken John alone in a too-empty flat. Unable to live in a place haunted by the souvenirs of his deceased friend, John had moved out to a much-smaller apartment, which had looked like an insult after the comfy rooms of his former Baker Street address but it was all he could afford at the time. And, right after he had settled in his new flat, the limp had come back with a vengeance, forcing John to walk with an aluminium crutch again.

It was a beautiful spring day. The sun was shining behind fluffy clouds rolling on the blue sky; pigeons were roaming endlessly in the air, cooing in joy at the feeling of warmer air beneath their wings. People were smiling, couples were walking hand-in-hand and children were playing with a renewed energy. John, however, couldn't share the feeling of well-being that usually accompanied the return of spring; his friend's suicide had happened in May and, for three years straight, this time of year had left him a bitter taste in the month.

A news kiosk was standing in the middle of the sidewalk and John applied a pressure on the stick's pommel to help his right leg in avoiding the contraption. A force of habit made him glance at the wooden panel placed at the bottom of the kiosk, bearing "The Sun" headlines:

**PARK LANE**

**MURDER**

**BAFFLES**

**POLICE**

"Serves them right," muttered John under his breath, his dark blue eyes hardening in anger.

He wasn't a rancorous man – far from it – but he still hadn't forgotten the part some police officers had played in his friend's demise, either by stupidity or jealousy. The Park Lane murder was a high-profile one with the mysterious death of Ronald Adair, a young aristocrat with a penchant for on-line poker but, surprisingly enough, without enemies or particular vices. He had been found shot dead in his bedroom, the door locked from the inside. Higher powers screamed for results while the lower classes laughed at the police's impotency to solve the case.

But another headlines pinned on a panel next to the Sun's made him repress a shiver:

**CRIME**

**RATE**

**UP TO**

**20%**

John sighed, and his hardened features swiftly changed into a concerned expression. Crime rate had indeed steadily gone up since his friend's demise, and it was no wonder: the newspapers had clarion the suicide in bold, huge letters and one had to be out of town to have missed this information. But the snickers about the "_fake, fraudulent genius"_ choosing the coward's way out promptly turned into cries of anguish: delinquents of all sorts had heard the news too and they hadn't wasted time re-conquering businesses his friend had helped the police to close for years. Blackmail, extortion, aggression and murder were all in the rise, leaving London in a state of disarray – which hadn't boded too well with the 2012 Olympic Games. The police was completely helpless and the object of public ire; John couldn't help but think about how Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was feeling. The man had been a more-or-less ally to the crime-solving duo of Baker Street, but then the policeman had made a terrible mistake: he had let his judgment clouded by two of his subordinates, Forensics expert "Abominable" Anderson and Sergeant Detective "Defamation" Donovan.

That pair of jealous backstabbers – and illicit lovers – had accused his flat mate of having kidnapped two children after one of the rescued kids had shrieked in terror when she had seen the face of John's best friend. According to Anderson and Donovan, those screams were an absolute proof of culpability and Lestrade had folded, reporting their suspicions to his superior, Chief Superintendent Williamson. It had ended with an arrest, a broken nose for the Chief Superintendent (courtesy of John), an escape, a desperate attempt to clear their names...

...And a suicide for John's friend.

Sherlock Holmes.

Private investigator, chemistry graduate, _consulting _detective, expert criminologist, master in deductions at a glance and violinist during his spare time, Sherlock had been the best and the wisest man John had known. They had met through a mutual acquaintance and Sherlock had spontaneously proposed to share a flat with him, not even bothering to ask for references from the ex-army doctor who had been in financial distress at the time. Less than one hour after he had stepped into the roomy apartment of 221B Baker Street, John had been caught in one of the detective's case, a serial killer working as a cabbie and it had been concluded by a bullet in the murderer's chest – John's shot, to save Sherlock's life. Their friendship had been sealed in gold that fateful night and they had become the formidable crime-solving duo, providing unofficial help to the police and helping countless persons in and outside London.

It hadn't been an easy road; Sherlock was often impatient, brusque and his social manners were non-existent to say the least, calling everyone around him idiots and fools, an attitude that had won him many animosities. Even John had to endure the blunt of his rudeness from time to time but he knew it had been the detective's genius expressing irritation for having to deal with persons who couldn't follow the speed of his rocket-like mind. However, Sherlock hadn't been invulnerable to kindness, patience, empathy – John's main qualities – and together they had found equilibrium, Sherlock's energy finding conduction with John's calm grounding, while the doctor got a new purpose in life in helping the detective with uncommon crime cases.

But it was over.

Sherlock was dead.

John's heart constricted painfully in his chest, and his hand clutched more tightly the bouquet. For an outside observer the short, limping blond-haired man looked like a nervous suitor heading for a date, but it was far from the truth: the flowers were for Mrs. Hudson, his former landlady at 221 B Baker Street. The woman had been their angel in the house and a mother figure to Sherlock and John, cleaning up the mess while repeating she wasn't their housekeeper. She had been devastated by Sherlock's suicide; she had a soft spot for the young man since the day he had proved her absolute innocence in the crime committed by her ex-husband in Florida – freeing her of both suspicion and a wife-beater. For three years now, John and Mrs. Hudson would spend the anniversary of Sherlock's death talking quietly about their friend, then pay their respects to his grave before heading back home and have a nice cup of tea; And every time, John would bring flowers for his former landlady.

Mrs. Hudson hadn't blamed the doctor for leaving the flat, even if she missed him dearly: she understood it would have been too painful. John had been worried that the loss of rent money would dig a big hole in Mrs. Hudson's finances, but she had assured him it wasn't the case; Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother, had proposed to deposit a healthy sum of money every month on her bank account, on condition that Sherlock's flat remained untouched, like a giant shrine.

Once again, John's gentle features hardened. He hadn't forgiven Lestrade and his minions for accusing his best friend of an atrocious crime, but Mycroft Holmes held the blunt of his wrath. Sherlock's older brother – spymaster, unofficial British government and all-around lazybones – had yielded to the blackmail of a psychotic criminal mastermind, Jim Moriarty. The deal had been simple, actually: secrets about Sherlock in exchange of information about a secret computer key code. As soon as Moriarty had gathered enough data on the detective, he had escaped to launch a diabolical plan to get rid of his nemesis: ruining Sherlock's reputation, driving him to suicide after the press' slanders and the police suspecting him of kidnapping. Moriarty had blown his brains out shortly afterwards; John had supposed he wouldn't have lasted long after having denounced some of his accomplices and besides, he had achieved his masterpiece: Sherlock Holmes lying dead on a sidewalk, broken in both soul and body.

In the end, the consulting criminal had vanquished the consulting detective.

This very thought revolted John's chivalrous soul; after Sherlock's death, he had spent his evenings and weekends writing a book about his experiences with the detective. He had waited two years for the heat to calm down before submitting it to an editor and the first one he had contacted had accepted to publish the book immediately. _"The adventures of Sherlock Holmes"_ had brought Doctor John Watson a tidy sum but, surprisingly enough, neither the tabloids nor the police had said a word about its publication. John more or less suspected Mycroft to be behind this silence but the elder Holmes had never contacted him about the book or anything else. Not that John would have answered, though: too much bad blood between him and Mycroft.

Lost in his thoughts, John hadn't realized he had reached Baker Street. He dug his hand in his jacket's pocket and fished out the key opening the door of his former address. Mrs. Hudson had insisted that he should keep it in memory of Sherlock and the doctor appreciated her trust. The blond man smiled gently at the sight of Speedy's, the familiar sandwich and coffee shop where he had brought so many treats. Then, John unlocked the dark green door of 221 B Baker Street.

"Mrs. Hudson?" called the doctor as he stepped inside the entrance hall.

Silence greeted him, which was strange. Mrs. Hudson would normally come out of her flat to give him a big hug as soon as she would hear his voice, but this time no movement could be heard from behind her door. It was very unlikely that she would forget the date, so what was happening?

"Mrs. Hudson?" asked John louder, fearing the woman might be sick. He seized the doorknob of her door and turned it, just to feel a resistance: it was locked. Then, the doctor spotted an envelope with the word **"John"** written in bold letters, leaning against a vase filled with water and set on a small table, next to the door.

Puzzled, John put the flowers in the vase and picked up the envelope. There was a letter neatly folded in three inside and the blond man wasted no time reading it:

"_My dearest John,_

_I am so sorry but I have to leave London for a few days. My sister has finally gathered up the courage to divorce from her no-good husband but, as you can guess, she is pretty upset about the whole matter. Her children are all grown up and have left home, so she is alone in a tiny apartment and I don't want her to drown her worries in alcohol once again. _

_I will spend three days in Manchester (no longer than that, sleeping on my sister's couch is murder for my hip) and I'll call you as soon as I'm back. I'll make it up for you with a cup of my best tea and homemade biscuits, and we'll go see Sherlock's grave afterwards._

_Take good care of you in the meantime. I'm taking your book to read in the train. You're a very good writer and Sherlock would be proud of the way you have been telling your adventures._

_Love,_

_Mrs. Hudson"_

John smiled and tucked the letter inside his jacket. Dear Mrs. Hudson, she was truly a pearl amongst landladies. Of course, it was disappointing that she wouldn't be around for the third anniversary of Sherlock's death but the doctor understood plainly her plight: he also had an alcoholic sister, Harriet ("Harry" for her relatives and girlfriends) who had recently relapsed. John had sent her to a very pricey rehab clinic, in the hopes that consorting with actors and celebrities would take her sister's mind out of her problems – squandering his recent wealth in the process. Harry had thanked him with insults and accusations, as usual.

At least the flowers wouldn't go to waste, Mrs. Hudson would find them after returning from Manchester, a signal that her former renter had indeed dropped by but the doctor didn't look forward to go to the cemetery alone. However, John was a soldier and a doctor, not the kind to shirk away from his duties. He turned about leave but couldn't help taking a look at the much-cherished building: the dark-colored walls, the gray carpet, the narrow entrance hall with the seventeen steps leading to their shared flat, Mrs. Hudson's door next to the staircase, the ceiling light that had been fixed by a repairman the day Sherlock had committed suicide.

A sad sigh escaped from John's lips as his eyes got filled with unshed tears. Since Sherlock's death, he hadn't been able to climb the stairs and take a lot at his former apartment. He knew Mrs. Hudson had kept it intact and only his own stuff was missing, but his throat would tighten like in a hangman's noose at the very thought of pushing open the door of their flat and look at Sherlock's stuff scattered everywhere. The violin, the piles of books, the scientific equipment on the kitchen's table, the smiley painted in yellow on the wall, the newspapers lying on the floor... All but painful reminders that Sherlock was gone. John would have given the world… his soul... _anything_ to have his friend back! He wanted to be Sherlock's flat mate again, to be awakened in the middle of the night by violin playing, to find human body parts in the refrigerator, to run across all London to solve crime cases! He owed Sherlock so much for throwing him back to life after Afghanistan and the end of his military career, and the doctor hadn't been able to repay his friend in full… and never would.

"Nevermore," whispered John, remembering the poem by Poe with the raven repeating endlessly this word, increasing the narrator's distress about the death of his beloved. Yes, his grief felt like having a black bird permanently roaming above his head and cawing this desperate word – but John was the only one to hear it. No one had been able to help him overcome his sorrow; his colleagues at work, his therapist, even Mrs. Hudson were powerless in consoling John. His heart had been irremediably broken on that fateful day at St. Bart's and it had been relentlessly bleeding for three years.

The doctor was a courageous man, though, and he steadfastly refused to fall apart. It would have pleased Sherlock's detractors too much if John used his friend's suicide as an excuse to lose himself in booze or rage. Besides, Harry's alcoholism had discouraged him a long time ago to become intemperate; he had seen too many times his father trying to calm her down while their mother was crying in the background. No, John was a man on a mission: restoring his best friend's reputation by his writings. He had vowed that the whole truth would come out one day and his book was the first step towards the right direction. He would write twenty more books if needed but he _would_ succeed and the raven would shut up, along with the other birds of ill omen who had made a mockery of Sherlock. On everyday life John would keep his shoulders straight, his chin up, do an outstanding job at St. Bart's cardiac care department and spend his nights writing to achieve his secret goal; only when he visited 221 B Baker Street or at nights, when the nightmares were too violent, would he allow the grief to re-surface. More than once did Doctor Watson left for work early in the mornings with red-rimmed eyes.

Blinking furiously, the blond-haired man limped his way out of Mrs. Hudson's household. He closed the door behind him, locked it and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He held his head up to avoid a tear from falling down on his cheek and the momentum made him look without thinking at the dilapidated building located across the street, opposite of 221 B.

And then….

… _A movement…_

… _Behind one of the dirty windows!_

John blinked again to clear his vision but it was too late: whatever had been moving had disappeared in the shadows of the empty house.

TBC…


	2. Camden House

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- Wow! Thank you to all of you who had put this story on their Favorite and Alert Lists!

- Some details come from the story "The empty house" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

- "_Chasing the dragon"_ is a metaphor referring to the pursuit of the ultimate high by using some particular drug (from Wikipedia).

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: Camden House<strong>

Night had fallen over London, revealing the city in a display of multi-coloured electric lights enhancing its beauties. Most people had gone home to their families after a hard day of work but some others had went out to enjoy drinks at their favourite pub, watch a movie or a play at the theatre, or simply hanging out with friends. Tourists were enjoying London by Night tours while police officers were patrolling to ensure the citizens' safety. However, clouds were gathering in the western sky, a sure sign of rain and people were walking at a quicker pace, worrying about getting drenched before reaching destination.

A single pedestrian, however, kept on walking at a calm pace with the help of his stick. After his visit at Baker Street earlier in the day, Doctor Watson had decided to investigate further the strange "shadow" he had spotted behind one of the windows of Camden House, the empty building across his former address and doing a little search by night usually gave good results. Of course, it was also a foolish action: John was a civilian, he had a bad limp on his right leg and he certainly hadn't phoned the police to tell about his suspicions – he would only end up being called a liar or a paranoid. But he also wasn't the kind to leave a rock unturned, especially after having lived under the same roof as the greatest detective of all times.

Besides, John was worried that the "shadow" saw earlier – he could have sworn it had been the silhouette of a man – would spell trouble for Mrs. Hudson. It wouldn't be the first time killers prowled around in Baker Street and he hadn't forgotten the day the dear woman had been targeted by C.I.A. agents, who had thought they could extort a compromising camera-phone from the detective by pointing a gun at Mrs. Hudson's head. However, their cowardly leader had learned the hard way that it didn't pay to mess with Sherlock's favourite landlady – by being head-butted before being thrown out from the second floor's window to the garbage bins neatly stacked in the courtyard. Afterwards, John had wondered if this action hadn't been too extreme but Sherlock had replied firmly, his eyes as hard as steel:

"_He attacked Mrs. Hudson and I owed him one for ordering his goon to shoot __**you**__ at Adler's. He got off lightly!"_

John had a smile at the recollection of this incident. Sherlock, who had taken praise of his heartless, cold, sociopath reputation, had nearly killed a man for threats against his friend and his landlady. Donovan had probably chocked on her own poisonous saliva after hearing the news from Lestrade!

A group of laughing tourists walked towards him, led by a guide who was telling them wild stories about spirits haunting the nearby Regents' Park, obviously their next destination. A Ghost Walk, by the looks of it, and John's eyes saddened at the irony of the situation. Those tourists were ghost-hunting but so was he, chasing a shadow briefly seen in a dilapidated building... That was odd behaviour for a respectable doctor, whose mind had been shaped years ago by facts and reason. But the truth was, John hadn't been able to resist to the call of the intrigue, that little thrill of excitement which had clung to Sherlock like an aura. Perhaps, by renewing with mystery, John would be able to re-connect with his dead friend – even for just a few seconds.

However, being excited by mystery didn't mean for Doctor John Watson to behave like a fool. He had been in the army for fifteen years and it had taught him a thing or two about moving discreetly in the dark and approaching a target without getting spotted – even though he had been younger at the time, less traumatized and with two good legs, those lessons had been drilled into his mind good and hard. He had also packed a torch and an extra protection in the form of a British Army-issued L9A1 gun. After that tragic confrontation with Moriarty, John didn't want to take any chances in case if one of the criminal's minions was haunting the building facing 221 B Baker Street.

As quick as his limp would allow him to, the ex-soldier walked on Cavendish Square and then he suddenly turned right in a narrow alley separating two buildings. It wasn't a normal route but circumstances forced him to make detours before reaching the empty house to investigate, and after Sherlock's death John had taken upon him to memorize all the by-ways of his former neighbourhood as a precaution and also to escape Mycroft Holmes' CCTV cameras. He walked through smelly alleyways, climbed emergency staircases, twice missed stumbling over fallen garbage bins because of the darkness, scared a few cats which mewed furiously at him for interrupting their pillaging of rotten meat and then, finally, he reached Manchester Street.

He limped his way to reach Blandford Street, and then hid in the shadows again to follow a narrow lane that he knew would lead him to the courtyard located just being Camden House. A wooden gate with a lock blocked the way but John didn't have time for subtleties; climbing the gate was impossible, thanks to his leg, so he took the gun from out of his jacket and used its butt to smash the wood where the lock was fixed. Fortunately, the gate wasn't new and the post broke easily. John gave a kick with his cane and the gate was left ajar, letting enough space to enter. John didn't waste time crossing the courtyard; neighbours usually didn't look through back windows but he couldn't afford being spotted by a scared old biddy who would call the police in a snap if she saw him prowling around.

He reached the back door of Camden House and gave it a push; oddly enough, it wasn't locked but the hinges started creaking. John stopped, worried that someone could have heard him but only silence greeted him. After a minute, the doctor calmed down and entered the empty house through the partially-open door.

The building reeked of garbage and human waste. John took out his pocket torch and lightened it; Camden House was indeed in a sad shape: bare planking, dirty tiles and wallpaper hanging in ribbons. There were also signs that it had been visited by kids as tags had been painted on the walls – the usual messages of hate towards the police force, declarations of love to this or that sweetheart or even attempts at urban art. John walked down a long hall and reached a large, rectangular living room with large windows (covered with dust and cobwebs) letting in very little illumination from the streetlights of Baker Street; obviously, this place had been used by homeless people, considering the number of dirty mattresses piled up on the floor and the fireplace filled with cans, old wrapping papers and bottles. Maybe even drug addicts had come here to find a quiet place...

John's heart constricted painfully as a souvenir of Sherlock came to his mind: his friend had "chased the dragon" years ago and John had been shocked hearing this piece of information, having a hard time believing such a genius would deliberately endanger his brilliant mind with drugs. But Sherlock had explained that he hadn't done that out of recklessness but simply because he had been overwhelmed by boredom at the time.

"_But something good came out of it, John," _had said Sherlock._ "I got arrested, I met Lestrade at the police station and, after I deduced his upcoming divorce from the state of his jacket, he started consulting me for cases and I lost interest in drugs."_

Nonetheless, John had made it his mission to keep Sherlock away from drugs and smoking tobacco. But Moriarty had put a final end to everything...

John gritted his teeth and carried on with his investigation; it wasn't the time for a trip down memory lane, he had more pressing matters at hand. The house was indeed abandoned but he was trespassing on private property and his ties with the police force had been abruptly severed. John had steadfastly refused to take Lestrade's calls after Sherlock's suicide; the Detective Inspector had tried to apologize, to offer his condolences but after six months of no-reply, Lestrade had finally gotten the message and renounced to make amends for arresting Sherlock after having listened to his two viperian-tongued subordinates.

Waving his pocket torch around, John brought the ray of light in the shadowed corners, the ceiling's plaster bearing huge cracks, the little room next to the large one (which had been used as a lavatory, judging by the smell), a cupboard containing only a mummified mouse and the cold kitchen stripped of all cooking equipment. The doctor was starting to feel a bit silly: what was the use of searching a house that had been abandoned by everyone?

Suddenly, a creaking sound reverberated through the empty house.

John's heart beat inside his chest like a hammer at the thought that he wasn't alone in Camden House. Something upstairs had made the sound; it could be a homeless person, or kids trying to get a scare by looking for ghosts but John knew better: it had been the sound of a wooden plank creaking under the weight of a person trying to be discreet. It was time to take measures; John quietly disposed of his cane and, grabbing his gun from under his jacket, he pointed it in the direction of the staircase, his pocket torch tucked under the weapon.

John had a grimace at the sight of the dilapidated steps; climbing on such a construction wouldn't be easy, even if he had been taught to walk stealthily in the army. But another creaky sound coming from upstairs convinced him to go forward. He started climbing the stairs, taking extra precaution to hug the walls so the wooden planks would be more solid on the sides than in the middle, favouring his bad leg. Spiders' webs clung to his blond hair and the brushing of the mouldy walls deposited dust on his jacket but John didn't let himself being distracted. He had his share of building-investigation in Eastern Europe and Afghanistan; he knew that a wrong move or a simple sneeze could spell his doom.

He reached the floor above and took a peek from the entrance's frame – the door had been obviously torn off its hinges a long time ago, probably used as combustible. There was another hall leading to bedrooms, with a darkened bathroom at the end – John's pocket torch briefly flashed against the white ceramic of a bathtub – but what caught his attention was the long silhouette of a man peeking at the window of the right-hand larger room. John quickly understood that this chamber was located just above the ruined living-room he had visited earlier, and the man was watching the windows of his and Sherlock's former flat.

John never hesitated; he entered the room, his gun pointed directly at the tall stranger.

"Who are you?" asked the doctor in a firm, no-nonsense voice.

The intruder straightened, visibly shaken by John's sudden appearance but he didn't turn around. Instead, he raised his hands in a placating gesture, indicating that he was unarmed.

"I repeat, who are you? What are you doing here?" asked John but the stranger remained silent. From what he could see by the pocket torch's light, John could see that his prey was wrapped in a dark coat and his long legs were covered with woollen pair of trousers. The clothes confirmed the doctor that the intruder wasn't a squatter or a drug addict: this attire looked in good shape, hardly the ones worn by an out-of-luck person. The coat's collar was lifted, hiding the man's neck and strands of curly dark hair escaped from a knitted cap worn on his head.

For an instant, John's concentration faltered; if he didn't know better, he could have sworn this man bore the same silhouette as... But no, that was impossible.

"Answer me, Mister. For your information, I am armed and I know how to use it so don't try to play tricks. Now, what are you doing here?"

But the stranger merely sighed and shook his head, like in a silent refusal to cooperate. This attitude enraged John, as he started walking on the rotten hardwood floor towards the man. His bad leg was hurting in the earnest but the doctor paid no attention about it; the only thing that mattered was to get some answers to ensure Mrs. Hudson's safety on her return from Manchester.

"Turn about, Mister, I want to see you. _Now!_" said John, unlatching the safety of his gun to emphasize his words.

The tall man slowly turned about, and the pocket torch's light illuminated his face.

All colour drained from John's face as his dark blue eyes widened in surprise.

"No..." whispered the doctor.

The intruder remained statue-like, not even blinking from the light.

"No... N-No! It's im-impossible! You're... _d-dead!" _stammered John from shock. His heart was beating like it wanted to escape from his ribcage and his hands started to shake, but that was nothing compared to the tears filling up his eyes, blurring his vision.

A light trembling shook the stranger's tall frame, as if John's distress was affecting him; it prompted the doctor to lower his gun and take another step forward the man, but the whirlwind of emotions roaring inside his mind made John forget all about the room's damaged floor. His bad leg wobbled and he instinctively shifted his weight on the good one, but suddenly a deafening noise resounded through the room.

**C-R-R-A-A-C-K!**

"Watch out!" yelled the intruder.

John yelped in horror as the floor collapsed beneath him, making him drop gun and pocket light. The wooden planks, eaten away by termites for years, had broken under his weight to disintegrate in a multitude of debris. John fell through the gap and landed on the rotten mattresses left on the living room's floor.

The violent impact made him instantly lose consciousness and he remained immobile, showered with sawdust and shards; spiders fell on his body and scampered away as soon as they could, frightened by the sudden destruction of their webs; the pocket lamp landed nearby John's head and broke neatly in two, killing its light. The gun also fell and bounced harmlessly on the corner of a mattress, avoiding an accidental discharge.

The stranger fell on his knees and looked through the gap with a horrified expression on his face. His steel-coloured eyes were dimmed and his firm lips were shaking as he looked down at the unconscious doctor, lying motionless on dirty pallets.

"Oh please, no! Not _**him!**_" said the tall man, his voice breaking from anguish. But, as sudden as it appeared, the emotion vanished from his features to be replaced by a fierce determination. He stood up and left the room to run down the stairs, paying no heed about the state of the steps. His long strides quickly brought him to the lower level and he rushed towards the fallen man.

TBC...


	3. Ishmael is saved

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- There won't be any violence in this chapter so no Sherlock-punching, sorry.

- To LienaGrace: thank you very much for your review. I hope this chapter will answer all your questions!

- Ishmael and Queequeg are characters from the 1851 _"Moby Dick"_ novel by Herman Merville (1819 – 1891).

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: Ishmael is saved<strong>

The stranger kneeled by the immobile form of John Watson, taking no notice of the dust that was quickly making the air irrespirable in the empty house; his hand shook lightly as he pressed two fingers against John's throat, and sighed in relief as he felt a steady pulse beating under the skin. Then, he gently brushed away with his hand the shards of wood and the dust cover covering the doctor's face, taking extra precaution for the mouth and the nose to be freed of any particles that might compromise the breathing.

"John?" whispered the intruder but no answer came.

He batted away a spider that was crawling too close to them for his likings, and then he ran his hands through John's hair, searching for bumps or traces of blood. Fortunately, he found none and the conclusion that the mattresses had saved John from a fractured skull sprang into the man's mind. He also palpated John's neck and shoulders and couldn't feel any broken bones. He wasn't a medical doctor – unlike John – and yet he was versed in human anatomy, a knowledge that had been sharpened by three long years of living underground; apparently, John hadn't been harmed by the fall but the impact had knocked him unconscious. Normally, he shouldn't be moved from the scene of his accident but a damaged building wasn't the proper place to take care of him; besides, the broken ceiling let out another sinister cracking sound and the tall man's grey eyes looked apprehensively upwards as more dust and plaster started to fall. It was high time to get out of here!

The stranger quickly took care of things: the broken lamp was discarded into the fireplace, landing on the pile of rubbish, and the gun was safely tucked in one of the large coat's pockets. He swiftly wrapped one of John's arms around his shoulders, making the senseless man sit up for a second. Then he slipped one arm beneath John's back, the other under his knees and lifted him up in his arms, bridal-style. He swiftly got on his feet and John moaned feebly at the movement; his head came to rest against his rescuer's neck and, unbelievably, it made the tall man smile.

He glanced around to make sure any trace of their passage had been erased – apart from the broken ceiling – and turned about to exit the house when something caught his attention. The stranger frowned: it was John's walking stick, still propped against a wall nearby the staircase.

"He doesn't need this any longer!" grumbled the man, giving the cane a kick that made it fall on the dust-covered floor. He walked down the hall carrying his precious cargo, grunting softly under the weight. John may be on the short side but he was made of solid muscle forged by years in the army. But nothing, not even the British government – official or unofficial – would have made the man relinquish his hold! The life he was cradling in his arms was unique; it was the only light of his existence and he wouldn't allow it to be snuffed out by a stupid accident, just hours before they would have been officially reunited.

"_Guess the reunion will have to be brought forward," _thought the intruder. _"I had planned to get rid of my last enemy tonight and then present myself to John with the satisfaction of a mission fully accomplished, but his inquisitiveness has changed all this."_

He would normally have been pretty crossed at this sudden thwarting of his plan but the shock of seeing John, followed by his fall, had filled his mind with worry and he couldn't possibly care about enemies for the time being. He reached the back door and pushed it open with his foot, paying no heed to the hinges' creaking, and stepped outside in the courtyard. His keen eyesight had no trouble outlining potential obstacles in the dark as he certainly didn't want to compromise John's recovery by adding a few bruises to his already battered body and also, because he could hardly defend them from potential foes while holding an unresponsive man.

Moving quietly, like a shadow, the man exited the dilapidated building; he crossed the courtyard in three long strides, pushed open the wooden gate and disappeared in the labyrinth of backstreets and alleys previously used by John to approach discreetly Camden House. The cool air of the night made the doctor shiver and the stranger secured his hold, worried that his burden would awaken while being carried through dark streets, adding confusion to his traumatized state. But John remained limp and calm in his rescuer's arms, as if he trusted him with his safety, even unconscious. The tall man quickened his pace.

* * *

><p>A cold sensation on his forehead was the first thing John felt as he slowly regained consciousness. He sighed and tried to open his eyes but light instantly blinded him, making him renounce temporarily on trying to see. The coldness moved from his brow to his cheeks and John realized it was a water-soaked cloth gently dabbing his face. But where was he? What had happened?<p>

Military training kicked in and John remained immobile as he took account of his own condition; he was lying on a firm but comfortable surface, his head was supported by something soft and his body, while quite battered, wasn't hurting as if he has sustained a major injury. Someone was nearby – John could feel a regular breathing close to his face – and he realized this person was the same one trying to revive him with a cold compress. Not an enemy, then. But where was he?

John slowly opened his eyes again and this time, he was more successful but his vision remained blurred, making it hard to assess his surroundings. The cloth left his face to rest on his forehead again and it felt like a touch of mercy for his confused mind. He tried to control his breathing and, after a while, his eyesight cleared; John suddenly realized he was staring at a wall covered with dark paper showing damask patterns, which would have looked sombre for not the tiny, round holes visible on its surface and a big smiley painted in yellow.

_Smiley?_

John's ocean-coloured eyes widened as he recognized the pattern. The smiley, this wallpaper, the messy bookcase tucked in a corner... His hand brushed against the surface he was lying on and he realized it was a dark green leather couch. He stopped breathing for a second at the sight of the curtains framing the large window, offering a view of buildings and rooftops he would recognize among thousands.

_221 B Baker Street! He was in the living room of the flat he had shared with Sherlock!_

But how on Earth had he landed here? His last souvenir was of him investigating Camden House, climbing up a dilapidated staircase to reach the upper floor, his gun on the ready to surprise...

_The intruder!_

John let out a gasp as he remembered aiming a gun at a man... The pocket lamp's light illuminating the man's face... The floor collapsing under his feet... And the intruder had looked just like...!

The cloth was removed from his brow and a deep baritone voice asked: "John?"

The ex-army doctor felt a big lump of sorrow gathering inside his throat, threatening to choke him. He had recognized the voice, it was... Oh no, please God, it could only be a joke, a cruel prank played by Lestrade, Donovan and the rest of those backstabbers...

"John, look at me," said the well-remembered voice, this time a bit more insistent.

A lesser, desperate man would have refused to obey but John Watson, decorated war hero, wasn't the kind to cower in fear. He turned his head towards the voice and this time, he thought he had lost his mind at the sight that greeted him!

Sherlock Holmes was at his bedside, smiling at him.

John felt tears gathering at the corner of his eyes and the lump of sorrow in his throat grew to reach the point of unbearable. But in spite of the vice-like sensation, he managed to sit up on the couch, stuttering: "S-S-Sher... 'lock?"

"My dear John! I owe you a thousand apologies. I never thought my brusque appearance would upset you so – not to mention making you fall through a floor."

"Sherrrr-lock," said John through clenched teeth. He reached out, laid his hand on his friend's wrist and Sherlock thought for a second that he wanted to take his pulse but the doctor merely pinched the skin of his arm. The younger Holmes grunted lightly from the action but a beaming smile from John made the living room go brighter.

"You're not a ghost... You're alive! YOU'RE ALIVE!"

"John..."

"SHERLOCK!"

John engulfed Sherlock in a bear hug, the momentum making the two men tumble over. The detective found himself sitting on his butt on the hardwood floor, his arms full of a sobbing friend who had wrapped both arms around his neck, nearly strangling him but he couldn't give a damn about it. He had his **unique **friend back and, from the look of it, he was pleased to see him.

Sherlock gently tucked John's head under his chin, making the smaller man press his ear against his chest. John was crying, talking, praying at the same time and only a few words coming out of his mouth were making sense, like "_You're here"_, _"Oh, God"_,_ "A miracle"_,_ "Thank you, God"_ while hugging the detective with renewed vigour, like Ishmael holding on for dear life at Queequeg's coffin-buoy after Moby Dick had sunk the _Pequod_. Here again, Sherlock couldn't mind in the slightest since he was so happy to be at the only place he had ever called home, with the only man who had managed to mean so much to him. Three years of hardships were finally coming to an end.

John's cries changed to soft weeping, his face buried in Sherlock's shirt. The detective wrapped his arm around the doctor's shaking shoulders, rocking him slowly while his other hand cupped the back of John's hair, mussing the blonde hair where sawdust still clung to it. This comforting gesture made John cry unashamedly, every tear washing away the sorrow he had endured since that fateful day at St. Bart's. The lump inside his throat was still stuck there but this time, it wasn't due to grief but to relief.

A very long time passed before John could calm down, but Sherlock didn't want to brusque him after that misadventure at Camden House. The doctor could have been seriously injured, even killed in the fall and with the shock of seeing his resurrected friend, he was entitled to be a bit traumatized. He kept on cradling John against his chest, next to his heart, right where he belonged. It felt fine, just _fine_ to be in 221 B Baker Street with John that somehow he wondered how he had survived three years of exile.

"_Probably because I clung to the foolish hope that we would be reunited and, against all odds, it happened,"_ thought the detective. _"But now that it has happened, what will become of us? Will he understand that I have been forced to leave, that I have lived for three years with the constant fear that Moriarty's minions would harm him in spite of my apparent suicide?"_

Sherlock dug a handkerchief out of the pocket of the dark blue jacket he was wearing, and offered it to John. The smaller man accepted it gratefully and dried his face of tears tracks before clutching the linen in his fist like a lifeline.

"Sherlock?" murmured John.

"Yes?"

"I-I'm sorry."

That certainly surprised Sherlock. He had expected anger, rage, a punch on the nose and all the rest of it at their reunion – and he had resigned himself to receive the brunt of John's wrath on the face – but apologies hadn't been foreseen.

"Why?"

"That day, at St. Bart's... At the lab, I called you a machine... I accused you of not caring about Mrs. Hudson. I've been an idiot, Sherlock. I'm so sorry!"

The detective's embrace felt as if iron cables had replaced the muscles of his arms. Unexpectedly, a tear escaped from his steel-coloured eyes and landed on John's arm, making the doctor raise slightly his head.

"Don't you _ever_ apologize to me, John Hamish Watson," said Sherlock with a firmness he usually reserved to clients offering boring cases. "I'm the one who owes you a lifetime of amends and I am not even sure to be worthy of your forgiveness, but I give you my word I will do anything within my power to earn it, even if it takes years."

"W-What do you mean?"

Sherlock sighed, and for the first time John could see his friend indeed looked tired. His face was whiter and skinnier, there were new worry lines at the corners of the eyes and mouth; his hair was shorter but the irregularities in the cut betrayed a self-made job, and there were even a few silver strands lost in the dark curls. Wherever Sherlock had been, it certainly hadn't been a vacation and John's medical experience quickly gave him a diagnosis: the detective was nearing exhaustion.

"Sherlock, do you want to lie down for a while?"

"Me? I'm not the one who has missed breaking his neck a moment ago!" protested the younger Holmes. "If it hadn't been for those dirty mattresses... In fact, I should have called an ambulance and have you sent to a hospital just to be sure you haven't sustained any injuries in Camden House."

"I'm fine, trust me. I've had knocked my head far worse in Afghanistan. My dear chap, words cannot describe my joy. But please, tell me... By what miracle have you survived your fall?"

Sherlock sighed again; it was the moment of truth and, even though John seemed genuinely happy to see him, the detective couldn't help but feel nervous at the idea that his friend would resent him for his past actions. Sherlock Holmes, getting cold feet... Just a few months ago, he would have laughed out loud at this statement but at the moment it didn't feel funny at all. Reluctantly, he relinquished his hold on John so his friend would see him face-to-face, and asked:

"John, before I begin, I want you to search your memory. Do you recall our confrontation with Moriarty?"

The doctor's face blanched at the souvenir; he certainly would never forget that evening where he had being kidnapped, forced to wear a bomb vest and mocked by the criminal maniac until Sherlock had showed up at the pool.

"Oh God, yes."

"He told me to stop interfering in his business or he would destroy me. Do you remember his exact words?"

John briefly closed his eyes; this memory of the psychopath was painful but he knew it was important to get an explanation about Sherlock's suicide.

"He said... **"I'll burn you. I'll burn... the **_**heart**_**... of you."**"

"Exactly. And he also knew I wouldn't back off, so our official duel to the death began that night. We were at the same level of intelligence and we were both resolute to fight until our last breath, so this duel could have gone on forever but Moriarty had an advantage over me: he had no heart while I... had recently discovered I had one."

"Sherlock, of course you have a heart!" exclaimed John. "You've always had one! For your information, I have never believed that _"highly-functioning sociopath"_ line you've fed Anderson once. I'm a medical doctor, remember? And I've been in enough battlefields to recognize a mental illness when I see one. You're asocial, borderline rude and stubborn like a herd of mules, but you are a human being and so you have feelings like the rest of us idiots, even if you'll do your damnedest to hide it."

"Ah John, if only it was so easy. I have always thought that to be a hundred percent efficient in my job, I had to shun out all kind of emotions to let my brains function without any hindrances. Even the most basic of feelings like eating or sleeping had to be repressed to the maximum in order to concentrate day and night on cases. While other detectives would waste time with their mundane lives, I would gather data and solve mysteries in a snap. This repression of emotions also had another advantage: I wouldn't get involved in relationships and my enemies didn't have any kind of leverage on me."

"But your brother..."

"Mycroft is too well-protected, and we are not close. We had a major falling out – details are personal – and for years nobody knew I had a brother, which suited me very well."

Sherlock bowed his head, as if he couldn't look at the doctor in the eyes. Alarmed, John placed his hand on the younger Holmes' shoulder as a gesture of silent support.

"But... No matter how hard I tried to remain detached from people, things started to change. First, I met Lestrade after he arrested me for drug possession and a few minutes of deduction made him take the first intelligent decision in his life, namely giving me cases in an unofficial capacity. Then, I travelled and met Mrs. Hudson in Florida: a lower-than-imbecilic detective was persuaded she had helped her husband in murdering two girls, whereas a survey of her hotel room would have proven her innocence. Luckily, her attorney listened to me and she was cleared of all charges. After that, she promised me a place in her Baker Street house and she kept her word. I had gained a supplier of cases and an understanding landlady, so I thought I wouldn't need anything else in life..."

Sherlock suddenly raised his head and locked his steel-like gaze in John's deep blue eyes.

"It was at that very moment I met you, John. I had no hope whatsoever in finding a flatmate to save a bit of money and buy some extra scientific equipment, and lo and behold Mike Stamford found me one. And in less than a few hours, you proved to be courageous, resourceful and loyal. That was so astonishing I thought for a moment you were one of Mycroft's spies, but when he showed up after the cabbie's shooting it was evident you didn't appreciated him."

"I'm sorry I gave you this impression," said John with a half-smile.

"I decided to unravel the mystery of who John Watson was, but you baffled me. You are straightforward, you can't fake and you can't lie – not even to yourself. You called me your friend, showing way more acceptance towards me within a few days than the whole Scotland Yard's detectives in years. You helped me with cases come Hell or rising waters, sacrificing your job and your girlfriends if needed, and never asked anything in exchange. God, John! Moriarty saw right through me; I could have been made of glass, it wouldn't have made any difference whatsoever."

"Sherlock, you're worrying me."

"Moriarty wanted to destroy me completely. He wanted to torn my reputation to shreds, making me lose everything – the flat, my career as the only consulting detective in the world, my future. But burning me to a crisp wouldn't have enough for that psychopath. He wanted to burn the _**heart**_ of me and he knew how to realize his evil scheme. The only way to annihilate me would have been to kill you."

New tears flown on John's face at those words, and he clenched his fist on the handkerchief he was still holding.

"I'm your heart."

"Yes, John. You are."

The doctor launched himself back in Sherlock's embrace, and held him tightly. His throat was getting blocked again by emotion but he managed to croak out:

"I love you too, you big idiot!'

TBC...


	4. The Straw Knight

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- "_The oak and the ivy"_ is a story written in 1886 by American writer Eugene Field (1850 – 1895).

- Aristotle (384 B.C. – 322 B.C.) was a Greek philosopher and polymath.

- "_The purloined letter"_ is a short story by American poet and author Edgar Allan Poe (1809 - 1849).

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4: The Straw Knight<strong>

Sherlock and John remained embraced for a long, long time but no one dared to end it. They have been separated for too many months to let anything, like male pride, to stand on their way. These two men were better than friends, more than lovers; their relationship echoed with the ones found in myths and legends, where two persons protected one another with an unmatched feriousness. Damon and Pythias, Hamlet and Horatio, Legolas and Gimli... all these famous friendships that too many people thought existed only in books, making them dream for a while before storing them too quickly on the shelf, abandoning all hope to ever live one.

"_The world is truly filled with fools,"_ thought the acerbic detective. _"And I have almost joined the crowd by thinking I would never find a true friend, making me the unofficial king of fools."_

Then again, Sherlock considered having excuses: he had been gifted with a superior intellect, a pair of sharp eyes, an undeniable talent for deduction and an insatiable thirst for murder cases – things that usually spooked people off. He had long ago refused any kind of social bounding, finding them boring to tears and, in the process, he had renounced to any kind of friendships simply by stocking them in a file labelled _"impossible"_ and then erasing it from his similar-to-a-hard-drive brains.

But John was different; with no other weapons than his good heart, his kind soul and his world-weary eyes, the doctor had found the chink in the hard-as-steel fortress surrounding Sherlock's heart and had comfortably nested inside without batting an eyelid. And it hadn't taken long for the detective to understand that his life would be forever entwined with John Watson's, like in the oak and the ivy story. In fact, it had happened on that fateful night where John had shot Jeff Hope, the cabbie turned serial-killer, to save Sherlock from the tantalizing voice of that monster coaxing him into swallowing a potentially lethal pill. That night, Sherlock had realized John was to stay for the long haul – at the flat, by his side, and in his heart. The world's most unsociable detective had found a soul mate and, if he had been a religious man, Sherlock would have called this event a miracle.

A quote by Aristotle jumped into his mind: _"What is a friend? A single soul in two bodies"_ and that simple sentence perfectly resumed the alchemy between Sherlock and John. No need to do some thorough soul-searching until the end of times to find another reason for their brotherhood which was inexplicable, envied and invincible.

The doctor's voice asked softly: "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

The smaller man slowly disengaged himself from the embrace and the detective suddenly feared their reunion would be destroyed by an explosion of anger; but John merely took his friend by the arm and led them both to the green leather couch. Once they were seated, John locked his ocean eyes on Sherlock's steel-like ones and asked firmly:

"Sherlock, please tell me why you disappeared. Tell me why you committed suicide. And for God's sake, tell me why I had to wallow in grief for three years!"

The detective hung his head in shame. He had no regrets about taking that decision at the time but watching the disappointment on John's face was more than he could bear. He reached out and laid his hand on the blond-haired man's wrist, like he wanted an anchor but didn't dare to grab it, and began his story while keeping his gaze down:

"John, I swear on my life that I never wanted you to witness this… extreme exit. But at St. Bart's, I found myself cornered by Moriarty; truly, deeply and absolutely cornered, and jumping from that roof had been the only solution left to save you."

"What do you mean?" asked an astonished doctor.

"The case started way before we have retrieved the Reichenbach Falls painting; unknowingly to me at the time, Mycroft and his men had submitted Moriarty to questioning for weeks. My brother wanted to know if he had some other blackmailing material in stock for Britain's most important family, like with the case of Adler's photos of the female young person who had so foolishly compromised herself with that woman's sex games."

"But Adler is dead! And you have given all her potential leverage to your brother."

"Adler is not dead, John. I know Brother Dear asked you to tell me that she was in a Witness Protection Program in the USA to hide the fact she had been beheaded by terrorists, but I knew both sides of the story were false simply because I saved her from being executed!"

"Oh my gosh!" exclaimed John, his eyes widening in realization. "That impromptu trip to Greece you had taken…"

"Actually, I went further south. I saved Adler just in the nick of time, got rid of the terrorists and let her go. She is no longer a threat to anyone – apart to the pathetic willing to pay for corporal punishments, and even here her future is rather bleak: age and prostitution doesn't mix. And I have no remorse about thwarting my brother's plans, since he had asked my only friend to lie to my face."

It was John's turn to feel embarrassed: "I am sorry I lied to you, Sherlock. I just wanted to spare your feelings…"

"John, I never had any romantic attachments towards Adler. She intrigued me, for certain, and she had beaten me two times before I could finally unlock her Smartphone but in the end I left her in the dust, ruined by her greed and overconfidence in her looks. A worthy adversary but she forgot one thing: girlfriends are **not** my area, and neither are boyfriends. Asexuality is a good armor in the battlefield of crime! Her Smartphone is locked up in one of my desk's drawers; I vowed to never open it again and I will remain true to my word."

Sherlock had a half-smile at the feel of John's fingers curling around his wrist.

"Adler was out of the picture, but Moriarty got quite crossed his little scheme against the most important family of Britain capsized. He had sworn my entire destruction but needed personal information about my life for his plan to come to fruition. He couldn't kidnap you again because he knew I would never let you out of my sight; he couldn't attack Mycroft without unleashing the full wrath of the British government on him; and Mummy has Alzheimer's disease, hardly a trustworthy source of information. So the only option left for him was to be captured on purpose by Mycroft's men of the Secret Services."

"WHAT?" exclaimed John, jumping on his feet. "But Mycroft told me that they had abducted him… He deliberately let himself being caught?"

"Oh yes, he did. It happened while we were in Dartmoor, solving the mystery of the hellish hound."

The blond-haired man started to walk around the living room back and forth, unable to stand still after hearing that piece of news. He had always known Moriarty was a psychopath, but this was definitively making him the emperor of all maniacs!

"That's the most incredible, stupid thing I've ever heard! Why on Earth would he willingly throw himself into the snakes' pit? The guy was probably a masochist, no wonder he and Adler got along so well!"

"And Brother Dear fell right into the trap; Moriarty endured weeks of tough interrogation until Mycroft finally relented to talk to him. Moriarty then offered him a deal no spy could refuse: a computer key able to open any kind of encrypted code for personal information about me. John, will you sit down? You really shouldn't be pacing like this after the fall you have sustained."

John sat down heavily on the leather cushions, looking so furious he could have lighted a fire in the living room's fireplace with the angry sparks shooting up from his eyes. The detective inwardly thought about the fools who considered mild-mannered, gentle and calm John Watson as an easy prey – conveniently forgetting the man was a doctor, trained to heal, **and** a soldier, trained to kill.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry but I'm going to massacre your brother!"

"Please, I don't want to visit you in jail. Besides, Mycroft already hates himself for what he has done; dying would be deliverance for him and we're not going to make things easy for him, hmm? Anyway, Moriarty's plan worked; he had all the needed information about me so all he needed was an escape, a would-be journalist and a high-profile case, hence the kidnapping of the Bruht children."

"But how in the world had he managed to escape from your brother's clutches?"

"With the help of one of his two favorite accomplices, namely bribery: he paid off the men guarding him, earning a get-out-of-jail card – Mycroft is right about not trusting his own agents. Then Moriarty did his little stunt at the Tower of London while cyber-breaking into the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison at the same time, creating a major uproar among the government that even Brother Dear found it difficult to contain: the computer key really existed! It was in the hands of a criminal mastermind! Panic in the streets! Moriarty let himself being caught – once again – but this time Mycroft couldn't kidnap him: the crime he had committed against the Queen made him won spontaneous media fame and everybody was looking forward to his court appearance. The sudden disappearance of Britain's most notorious thief would have raised too many embarrassing questions."

Sherlock suddenly tensed, and John's anger vanished at the sight of the frowning detective, obviously upset by a memory of the events that had happened in the courtroom.

"What is it?"

"I made two unforgivable mistakes the day of Moriarty's trial, John. Firstly, I got fooled by Kitty Riley's act; secondly, I underestimated Moriarty's ability to threaten people by using his second favorite tool: blackmail."

"Kitty Riley," said John, his lips pressing against one another in disgust at the recollection of that odious penny-a-liner who had slept with Moriarty (under his Richard Brook guise) to write an article that would have been the breakthrough of her career – never mind if Sherlock Holmes would have been utterly annihilated by her printed lies.

"Yes. She ambushed me in the men's room minutes before the beginning of the trial, posing as a love-struck fan but I deduced from her clothes and a few false clues that she was a power-hungry journalist, humiliated by her filler status and trying to compensate her lack of writing talent by obtaining information via sexual favors. She offered her help in _"settling the record right"_ about our friendship, an unsubtle way to say that I'd better give her an interview or else we would be called a gay couple. I told her to pack up her pitiful blackmail attempt and hit the road – but a vexed journalist is a dangerous one, and Moriarty provided her with the perfect help for her revenge."

John rubbed his hands on his face in a tired gesture; the depths of meanness of that woman could match Sergeant Sally Donovan's…

"My second mistake was to think jury members would be protected from the rest of the world during Moriarty's trial. I acted like a trainee, John! How could I have forgotten the jury members could be threatened by messages shown on the TV screen of their hotel rooms? They all had families, children for God's sakes! Blackmailing them into acquitting Moriarty had been a piece of cake."

"But how do you know all this?"

"Moriarty told me when he invited himself for tea in our flat, right after he was acquitted. The Napoleon of crime also made it clear we were in a duel to the death and I owned him for hampering his plan towards the royal family, an insult he wasn't going to forget anytime soon."

John put his hand on his friend's shoulder, a silent way to make him understand he was quite aware of the terrible turn of events that had followed the trial and didn't have to be reminded of it. Moriarty had indeed weaved a terrible web around Sherlock with the kidnapping of the Bruht kids, a case brilliantly solved by the detective but had snowballed into suspicions, an attempted arrest and Kitty Riley's upcoming article about the _"fake genius"_. The younger Holmes had quickly found himself wrapped into a paralyzing cocoon of lies, making him lost everything he held dear – his reputation, his freedom, his home –, breaking him under the pressure and then Moriarty the spider would have obligingly crawled over for the _coup de grâce_. Only John had remained steadfastly loyal to Sherlock, unwilling to let his mind clouded by the rubbish lashed out by the press or the police, showing more backbone than the entire population of London.

"Did you know you thwarted Moriarty's plan as well, John?" asked the detective and he couldn't help but chuckle lightly at the look of absolute stupefaction on his friend's face.

"_**I**_ thwarted his plan? And how, pray tell?"

"Moriarty had planned my arrest for the Bruht kidnapping and doubtless he had planned to destroy me while I would be rotting in a prison cell, alone and defenseless. He thought you couldn't do anything but waste time trying to bail me out. But he hadn't planned you would break the Chief Superintendant's nose, resulting in our mutual arrest and you gave me a chance, John! I improvised an escape and we earned a few hours of freedom, allowing us to confront Moriarty in his Richard Brook personae at Kitty Riley's flat. He certainly didn't plan to find us here; believe me, his first seconds of confusion were genuine before he could recover enough to flee. Then I knew Moriarty would try to kill you too, not only because you are my friend but you are also my witness, the only one who could have testified in court about my honesty. John Watson, war hero, recipient of the Victoria Cross, impeccable army record and respected medical doctor: you would have been a tough witness to crack for the Crown prosecutor!"

John couldn't stop the rush of blood on his cheeks: "Sherlock…"

"Don't blush, John, I am saying things as they are. But the game was tight and I knew I had to fool Moriarty in order to save you. My mind was made up when I arrived at St. Bartholomew's to ask Molly for some items, and then I asked you to come over at the hospital. You fell asleep at the lab, which gave me the silence I needed to refine my plan after you gave me the clue about Moriarty's computer key code."

"WHAT? But I've never…"

"Yes, you did; simply by drumming your fingers on a table. Moriarty did the same at 221 B, in a rhythmic cadence: 1-0-0-1-0-1-1… That what I thought was the key code but it hadn't been hidden in our flat: Moriarty had simply given it away during our tea."

"Oh, good Lord…"

"Yes, just like Adler when she "revealed" her safe's code with her nudist parade; her measurements were the right numbers to open the safe."

"It reminds me of _"The purloined letter"_, where a document is hidden in plain view."

"Exactly. Adler took a leaf from her master's book, didn't she? But I digress… I realized that night at St. Bart's that the end was close. We had a little reprieve thanks to you, but it wouldn't last long; even Lestrade isn't obtuse enough to forget the lab is our second office. While you slept, I called Mycroft: he confessed to everything. I told him the only way I'd ever forgive him would be his full participation to my plan."

John suddenly grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, looking so angry the detective actually felt a shiver crawling up his spine.

"And your great plan consisted in making me witness your suicide? This is intolerable!" roared the outraged doctor.

"No, John! My initial plan had been to neutralize Moriarty by telling him I knew about the computer key code!" replied Sherlock firmly. "I would have ruined him, revealing Richard Brook was a fake just like his accusations. But he laughed at me, saying this code never existed; the drumming fingers had been a lure. He cracked through the Tower of London, Pentonville Prison and the Bank of England simply by using bribery! He fooled secret services, terrorists, governments, me – everyone! Remember the international killers who had settled in Baker Street?"

"Holy God!" said the blond-haired man, releasing the grip he had on Sherlock out of surprise. "Do you mean they have killed each other for a lie?"

"Yes."

The doctor sat back on the couch, looking utterly confused. The computer key code had been their only hope to restore Sherlock's reputation but in the end it had been only a fake, a mechanical rabbit rushing ahead a pack of greyhounds. After Sherlock's death, John had fruitlessly searched their flat for days to find the key, in a desperate effort to prove his friend's innocence posthumously. Poor, naive Doctor Watson, he would have been more successful trying to catch the moon with a butterfly net…

"I-I'm sorry I yelled at you, Sherlock," said John, ashamed of his outburst; but the younger Holmes wrapped his arm around his friend's shoulders, drew him close and gave him a hug.

"Hush, my dear fellow. You're entitled to feel angry after all I've made you go through. I am grateful you're willing to lend me your ear; it is more than I have ever hoped, frankly."

"Did you honestly think I would punch your nose and kick you out of my life?" asked John, his face buried in the detective's shoulder. "I've prayed three years for this miracle!"

Sherlock tightened his hold, moved beyond words by this unconditional love; he remembered the presence of a book stuffed in one of his coat's pockets – a well-worn, creased and dog-eared paperback, bought for a few coins at a newsstand in Heathrow Airport and yet it was priceless, as it was a testimony of his friend's faithful souvenir. It wasn't the time to mention this particular book but its souvenir made the younger Holmes press a soft kiss on John's temple.

"I have a debt towards you, John, and I don't know how I will ever thank you but please, believe me when I tell you my initial plan wasn't to commit suicide. I sent you on a wild goose chase to make sure you were safe, and then I invited Moriarty to join me on the roof. But Plan A got blown to Hell after he revealed the key code was a sham. And then he coaxed me into jumping to my death, his head oscillating slowly from side to side in a reptilian fashion, like a snake hypnotizing its prey before striking. Jump, Sherlock, do everybody a favour; your reputation is in shambles; you're a wanted man; a little girl has "clearly identified" you as her kidnapper; her brother is dying in the hospital from poison; jump, Sherlock, you are burn to the crisp like the gingerbread man, you have nothing left to live..."

"Oh, God! But it sounds just like..."

John's voice broke as the dreadful souvenir of a case jumped back into his mind. He was too horrified to say the words out loud but the detective spared him the trouble.

"Just like Jeff Hope, yes: this cabbie must have inspired his sponsor Moriarty with his idea of persuading people to off themselves. A diabolical thought, to which the maniac could only subscribe to but he knew it would take more than a fake gun and a couple of pills to persuade me to do it. So he thought a cascade of terrible events, coordinated by "Richard Brook", would eventually despair me enough to take the fall! Moriarty called me boring, he said I was on the side of the angels and I would never escape from his tangled web of lies, so why not take the coward's way out? But I turned the tables on him: I said I wasn't my brother, I wouldn't fold for empty promises and being on the side of the angels didn't mean I was one."

"Yes, you are!" said John forcefully, wrapping both his arms around Sherlock's neck so his friend wouldn't see him weeping.

"John..."

"Please don't argue with me on this point, Sherlock."

The younger Holmes would have protested, but it was kind of hard with his friend hugging the life out of him. Besides, Sherlock knew _his_ John wouldn't relent, not even under the vilest tortures so it was pointless and a waste of time to pursue the argument.

"Fine, I concede defeat. But, after my statement, Moriarty realized I wouldn't hesitate to throw him out of the roof to rid the world of such an evil, despicable man who had destroyed so many lives. It was then he showed up his trump card: either I jumped or I would witness your death, as well as Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's."

John froze in Sherlock's embrace, but the detective held on tightly.

"Yes, my dear John. Hit men had been hired to kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade if I didn't comply with Moriarty's bloodthirsty whim and I couldn't let this happen. Lestrade may be an impressionable imbecile but his kids need him. Mrs. Hudson didn't deserve such a terrible end after having survived years of abuse from her ex-husband. And you... No, not you. Never you. This very idea was unbearable. Moriarty snickered about a signal giving the order to the hit men to start firing, and it was his own suicide. He blew his brains out, right in front of me."

"Oh, Lord... That day, after I arrived at Baker Street to check on Mrs. Hudson, there was a guy with her, a repairman fixing the lights in the entrance hall. Tall guy, bald and muscular, tattoos all over his arms. Sherlock, do you think... he **was** the hit man hired for her?"

John felt Sherlock nodding his head, and the doctor's heart turned into lead inside his chest. It had been a close call, very close indeed!

"I had no other option left than Plan B. I _had_ to jump to stop the killers. But before going on the roof, I had taken a little life insurance: braces to protect my neck and back, knee and elbow protections, and plastic pouches containing samples of my blood, supplied by Molly."

"She knew about your plan?"

"No, John. The only confidant I had was my brother and I owe you many apologies about keeping you in the cold, but your safety was paramount to me. I simply asked her to take about a pint of my blood because I feared having being poisoned by enemies. She agreed at once, of course, and then she left the hospital without asking any questions, thinking I would spend the day at the lab analyzing samples. Before jumping, I hid the plastic pouches under my coat and scarf. Alas, you came back earlier than expected... and it forced me to make you a witness of my suicide."

The doctor released the younger Holmes; his face was covered with tear tracks but he didn't make any effort to erase them. Sherlock swallowed hard at the sight of his friend's distress but carried on with his story:

"I am so sorry. I truly hoped you would arrive after the jump, but it didn't happen this way. Time was running out, the hit men were going to press the triggers within seconds. But I wanted to leave you one last message with so many contradictions you would figure out the hidden meaning. And then... I jumped."

"How could I have missed you weren't dead?" murmured John. "Some doctor I am..."

"Don't be too harsh on yourself! You were in shock and one of Mycroft's men knocked you down with his bike to prevent you from arriving too early at the scene of my death. You were dizzy, barely able to stand up and you tried to take my pulse while the hospital staff members – all of them secretly employed by my brother – were doing the impossible to pry you away from me. You saw me jumping from five stairs, couldn't feel my pulse and I was covered with blood: what other conclusion could you have drawn? I was whiskered away by Mycroft's people who tended to my wounds: a dislocated shoulder, a couple of broken ribs and a concussion, but thankfully I had managed to cushion my fall. Alas, I had to stay at the morgue, my injuries hidden under a sheet until Lestrade arrived to identify my body... A slab makes a very uncomfortable hospital bed! Lestrade was devastated, of course; he kept on ranting and raving about how it had been his entire fault and it wouldn't have happened if he hadn't let Donovan and Anderson influence his judgement... God, I thought he'd never leave!"

"And he was right to be devastated!" said an outraged John. "He should have known better than listening to this pair of jealous bastards."

"Ah, John... Not many people are gifted with your high level of integrity. After the death certificate was signed by another of Mycroft's creatures, my brother made me leave discreetly the hospital while another body, an unknown man, was registered under the name of Sherlock Holmes. Three days later, he was cremated and the urn buried under a dark marble headstone you have become acquainted with. I was sorrier beyond words to watch you and Mrs. Hudson grieving, John, please believe me! But I never regretted my actions since it put you both out of danger. Besides, Moriarty's death prompted three of his most faithful lieutenants to pretend to his succession and I had to track down those dangerous men."

"His lieutenants?" asked John, dabbing his eyes with the handkerchief he had been offered earlier.

"Yes. Moriarty was similar to Alexander the Great, you see? He had no heir apparent and after his sudden death, his generals fought one another for forty years for the remains of Alexander's empire. The same thing happened after Moriarty's suicide: his lieutenants wasted no time in trying to take over his well-organized web of crimes – forgery cases, robberies, murders, leaving a wake of destruction behind them. Mycroft gave me the needed money and I left England to become the Straw Knight."

A minute of silence followed Sherlock's words, and then John managed to stutter:

"The w-what?"

"In the Middle Ages, when a knight died far away from home, it was customary to bury him at the local churchyard and to send his heart to his family. The knight's chest would be filled with straw so he wouldn't look too damaged during his funeral and it prevented the stench from disturbing mourners. Many knights, even kings, have been buried without their heart or intestines, as those organs would be sent to places dear to the deceased. The same thing happened to me, John: I left my heart – you – in London and I travelled round the world with a chest filled with emptiness so nothing would stop me from neutralizing Moriarty's lieutenants, one after another."

TBC...


	5. Tiger in the night

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- To LienaGrace: thank you very much for your review! I am pleased you think this story is evolving in the right direction.

- A _dacha_ is a Russian second-home or cottage.

- Hyeronimus Bosch (1450 – 1516) was a Dutch painter, famous for his paintings using fantastic imagery.

- "_Extrañero" _means "stranger" in Spanish.

- Cicero (106 B.C. – 43 B.C.) was a Roman philosopher and orator.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: Tiger in the night<strong>

Sherlock's features hardened, making his face look as if it had been carved in alabaster; a flash of painful light shone in his eyes at the recollection of very bad souvenirs that had composed his life for three years. Had he had gotten his way the detective would have erased those events from his brains so they wouldn't have a chance to trouble him again. But his friendship for John prevented to keep him in the dark, as the doctor had a right to know what had happened. The man had grieved for Sherlock for three years, remained loyal in spite of terrible pressures and had even wrote a book to rehabilitate his memory. The least Sherlock could do was to present the whole truth to John as an apology present.

"It has been hard, John, much harder than I would have imagined. For years I had refused Mycroft's offers to work with him and yet there I was, being a spy and hating every second of it. But I detest predators even more and Moriarty's heirs had to be stopped; they had benefited from their master's lessons and they were resolute in keeping his web of crimes intact: it was such a beautiful network, a _chef d'oeuvre_; it would have been criminal to abandon it – no pun intended. I nicknamed these men Lieutenants One, Two and Three from their respective rank of importance, and started the hunt. Becoming a Straw Knight was the only way to endure my mission. I left all my personal belongings in London as I could keep nothing related to my former life, and started a new career as the British Secret Services' most efficient agent. I would track down Moriarty's lieutenants and then give my brother information on their whereabouts so Mycroft could send assassins and "wipe the place clean". I was the pilot fish preceding the sharks, John; I refuse to trouble you with gruesome details, just you know that Mycroft's men have been very thorough."

Sherlock laid his hand on John's forearm again but this time, his fingers curled around the blond man's wrist.

"I found Lieutenant Three about eight months after my demise; he was in Russia, enjoying a very lucrative business involving sex slaves and drugs trafficking, especially opium. He wasn't even in hiding, the arrogant pimp, wrongfully thinking the blackmailing of corrupted politicians would be enough to assure his safety. The fool! But he did have a good burglar alarm system and that was a challenge, since the man lived hermit-like in his deluxe dacha surrounded with pickets supporting barbed wire, surveillance cameras and motion detectors, plus a few bodyguards armed to the teeth for good measure and a bunch of underage prostitutes. Took me about a week to find the code key of his burglar system and then I remained in the background while Mycroft's Russian allies took care of business. We found five kidnapped teenage girls locked up in the basement; their virginity was to be sold in an auction within days. There were also large sums of money hidden in the house, and enough opium to poison the entire population of a medium-sized town. Considering my past, a cynic could imagine I would have seized the opportunity to relapse but frankly, it would have been an incredibly stupid thing to do. I went through lots of trouble to become a ghost, just to blow the whole thing wide open by doing a junkie number in an undercover operation? Talk about begging to be murdered and for good, this time!"

John had a small smile; he knew his friend was too much a professional to have adopted such a reckless attitude in the middle of a dangerous situation. The detective's drug habits had been linked in the past with boredom and chasing criminals across the globe must have been quite a powerful stimulant.

"What happened next?"

"While Mycroft was receiving praises and honours from his Russian counterpart for the destruction of a dangerous criminal and his organization, I hopped in a plane and left Moscow. Direction: Afghanistan."

"But do you know how dangerous this place is? I nearly got killed there!" cried John, his dark blue eyes widening in shock.

"I am quite aware of that, my dear fellow, but deceased Lieutenant Three had his fingers stuck deep in the opium trafficking, as I've just told you, and the country of Afghanistan is one of the main producers of the stuff. Funny thing is, I enjoyed my time roaming in Kabul's streets or trekking in the mountains: it felt like walking in your footsteps! I followed the trail left by Lieutenant Three's web, eliminated the local traffickers and torched down the poppy fields. It created quite a ruckus and I think one or two tribal wars erupted in my wake, but by the time the idiots had realized those destructions hadn't been done by rivals but by a single man, I've left the country with the name of Lieutenant Two. He was a bit keener than Three, as he suspected the death of his partner-in-crime hadn't been due to an overdue police operation, so he carefully left the Middle East to establish his business in Africa. Two was a gunrunner and a trusted provider of arms for all kind of clients there: rebels, dictators, corrupted governments, renegade soldiers, isolated farmers desperate to protect themselves... Lieutenant Two could sell guns to one group and the next day sell more powerful arms to a rival group. God knows, he never lacked clients in Africa. He was the trusted associate of local crooks, may they be living in the bush or in palaces, but he was cautious enough to be constantly on the road – unlike Three, he didn't buy a mansion to live the life of Riley. It took me a year but finally I found Two hiding in Nairobi, Kenya. He was providing guns to Somali pirates, who had used his merchandise to board a Spanish cargo ship: all the crewmembers were killed. So he decided to lay low, waiting for the international scandal to calm down, which gave me the perfect opportunity to strike. You should have seen the bonfire I've made after with a tower of confiscated smuggled weapons: when the ammunitions exploded, it made quite a bang. The local children thought it was celebration fireworks – which was close enough, when you think of it."

John gently intertwined his fingers with Sherlock's, sensing the detective needed some silent support. The detective answered with a smile – a genuine one, addressed exclusively to his friend – and carried on with his story:

"Two down, one more to go before I would be free and devote my life again to examine hopefully interesting little problems in London. The straw in my chest was starting to suffocate me but Lieutenant One was the most dangerous of the lot: unlike Three and Two, he wasn't driven by sex or money so tracking him down had been very difficult."

"What was his motivation, then?"

"Revenge. His name is Sebastian Moran and he was Moriarty's bosom friend."

John and Sherlock's hands locked together like iron.

"His... friend?" whispered the doctor.

"Yes, my dear John. Moriarty wanted so much him and me to be alike in every aspect of our lives, akin to twins. I remember, while we were drinking tea he bragged about his new superstar status in the criminal world; he mocked the gangsters' delirious offers of money for the fake computer key code, and how those sycophants would tear each other apart for a chance to earn his good graces. Of course, they were such imbeciles they never knew Moriarty merely considered them as "ordinary", amusing him for a moment with their ridiculous rivalry. He snickered and asked me: _"Aren't ordinary people adorable?"_"

Sherlock pressed his lips so tightly it formed a perfect horizontal line across his face: "And then he added: _"Well, you should know. You've got John. I should get me a live-in one, someday."_"

The doctor suddenly started to feel very afraid, without knowing the reason why. He had investigated Camden House on his own without batting an eyelid and he had endured the shock of Sherlock's resurrection like a soldier, but something in his friend's tone told him the worst was to come.

"Moriarty thus played "favourites" among his courtesans after his release. He chose Moran, his chief of staff, as he was the most obvious candidate: ex-military (just like you), crack shot (_idem_), nerves of steel (akin) and loyal to a fault (ditto); he would have made a perfect carbon copy of you but the similarities end here: you, my dear John, are a man of light while Moran's soul is so twisted it could easily feature in a Bosch painting."

Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand, squeezing so hard the doctor was in danger of having a broken finger.

"Moran had a remarkable career in the British Army; he rose up to the rank of Colonel and he had quite a reputation as a gunner. According to Mycroft's contacts within the armed forces, there wasn't a gun Moran couldn't hit the bull's eye with. His favourite tactic was similar to the _shikari_, the big-game hunters in India: tie a young goat to a tree, lie in wait until the tigers show up and then bang, bang, bang, down they come. But Moran began to go wrong during a peacekeeping mission in ex-Yugoslavia in the 90s; maybe watching snipers firing at innocents in the streets gave him the idea to play God – meaning, to decide who was to live or to die among a crowd of starved civilians, without having to wait for the tigers to come. Nobody could prove anything without any open scandal, of course, but the Army discreetly repatriated him back in England before kicking him out. Moran was wallowing in bitterness when Moriarty showed up, supplying him liberally with money and guns to assuage his passion for evil. Moran turned into a love-struck fanatic, unquestioningly following his demigod in every of his schemes, uncaring about people suffering from their actions. In fact, I am ready to bet Moran was the sniper who had killed the blind old lady in York, after she tried to describe us Moriarty's voice over the phone."

"Holy God! The shot killed her and 11 other innocent persons!"

"Quite right. And Moran thought himself the big man on the campus after Moriarty officially chose him as his favourite. Maybe his master even granted him sexual favours to make sure his enraged pet would stay by his side, who knows? But Moran was shattered by the suicide of his lord and master; he couldn't avenge himself on me since I was officially out of the picture and killing you would have been difficult since you were under media and police scrutiny. Britain was too hot for him and he left like the proverbial rat fleeing the sinking ship, trying to keep Moriarty's crime web intact in South America as a shrine to his adored mentor. His shooting skills were also much appreciated by drug cartels in the subsequent elimination of witnesses, reluctant suppliers or nosy law enforcement officers. He stayed for two years there, but the shooting down of an undercover D.E.A. agent enraged the American government so he had to hide. That's probably during this time that he learned about the fates of Lieutenants Three and Two; at first, he put their deaths on account of incompetence but his cunning mind started to suspect something else was at stake."

"Sherlock? Please, you are crushing my hand."

The detective jumped as if he had been stung by a bee, and then he looked down at their joined hands: John's knuckles were indeed blanching from the lack of blood circulation, making the younger Holmes release his grip.

"Oh! I'm sorry."

"It is fine, Sherlock," said John with a gentle smile while absently rubbing his fingers against the green leather cushion of the couch. "Hands in good condition are required in my line of work. Please continue, did you find Moran?"

"Yes, but he escaped capture twice – the first time in Bogota, where a corrupted cop tipped him off about a tall, dark-haired _extrañero_ with a strange accent asking questions. Moran thanked his informant with a bullet in the head and ran off to Europe, wrongly thinking I was a D.E.A. agent looking for clues about the death of his colleague. He made it to Ireland, Moriarty's homeland, and stayed put for a couple of months, trying to make out what was going on: his former partners-in-crime eliminated, a mysterious man at his heels and his South American network being destroyed shortly after his departure. Moran soon decided to re-create Moriarty's organization in England but he went penny-broke – courtesy of yours truly. _"Money is the sinews of war"_, to quote Cicero, and Moran's future war against humanity was severely compromised! I missed him by two days in Ireland, as he had already taken the ferry to go back to Great Britain. Moran had to refinance his goal quickly and for a criminal, the best way to discreetly earn large sums of money is by means of gambling."

John slowly got up on his feet as an idea slowly came to his mind. He walked up and down the living room but at a much quieter pace. Sherlock remained silent, knowing his friend would need some extra time to link various events in order to reach an intelligent conclusion. After a while, John turned about and asked:

"Gambling... like in casinos?"

"Yes."

"But casinos in England are under high surveillance and permanently monitored by CCTV cameras. I am assuming you sent information to Mycroft about Moran, and your brother probably sent his picture and description to all police and security forces; so it wouldn't be wise for a criminal on the run to show up his face in one of those places."

"That's correct."

"Then Moran could place bets on horse races, for example, but it would be too risky; he had no way to know if he would actually earn anything from his bets and shooting down bookmakers wouldn't improve his finances whatsoever."

"Brilliant, John!"

"So there is a third option left: playing card games, like poker, but here again it would take Moran too long to enter the illegal card clubs. You said he is in dire straits and he can't wait for too long, meaning the one way left for him to play quickly is the network of on-line poker games..."

The doctor suddenly slapped his forehead in a gesture of hard realization.

"Oh my gosh! The Park Lane murder!"

"My goodness, John, you are scintillating tonight! You ought to fall through floors more often. Yes, my dear blogger, Moran is the culprit responsible for the death of the Honourable Ronald Adair, who recently had his head exploded by a gunshot while being quietly sitting in his bedroom. It has been quite a mysterious case, hasn't it? Considering the mutilations done to Adair's head, one would think the shot had been done with a gun loud enough to wake up the house and the whole neighbourhood, considering Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare. But nobody heard a thing; the garden below Adair's bedroom window has not been disturbed; there are no buildings at a close enough distance of the mansion to be useful to a shooter. And yet, Adair met a gruesome death in the comfort of his own house. As soon as I've read about this case in an Irish newspaper, I knew this murder bore Moran's signature. So I came back to London under a disguise, and then I called Mycroft to tell him the worldwide hunt was over since the last of Moriarty's lieutenants was roaming the streets of our old city. Very sporting of him!"

"And you have a plan to flush this rat out?"

"Indeed I do, John. This is why I have been prowling around our old rooms after having spread a rumour among the homeless network that a man, bearing a striking resemblance to the late Sherlock Holmes, had been spotted nearby 221 B Baker Street. I knew Moran wouldn't be able to resist sending spies to get a confirmation of my haunting. It didn't fail, by the way: Baker Street is under surveillance for about a week. A good thing Mrs. Hudson has left for Manchester for a few days, otherwise she would have chased after the spies with her broom and I didn't need this kind of indiscreet intervention!"

The doctor couldn't repress a chuckle at the image of Mrs. Hudson charging at ruffians while armed only with a cleaning item. She wouldn't have hesitated a second to do it in loving memory of Sherlock, the dear woman!

"I was making the last preparations for my trap in Camden House when you showed up on 221 B's doorstep today. I cursed my stupidity as I remembered too late the third anniversary of my death was close, and it was obvious you and Mrs. Hudson would visit my grave at the cemetery. Since she was out of town, I figured you would take the hint and leave, allowing me to neutralize Moran and then reveal myself without the worry of having any enemies behind me. But... as you were leaving, I couldn't resist to take a look at you... I had to know if you were faring well."

Moved beyond words, John sat back on the couch next to Sherlock. The detective's simple confession was worth a thousand poetic declarations of friendship; the younger Holmes had missed his friend very much, to the point of risking the ruin of a three-year hunt just for a chance to look at him for a few seconds. There were no doubts in the doctor's mind that Sherlock would trade the Crown Jewels without batting an eyelid in exchange of John's safety.

"Did I wreck your plans with my impromptu visit at Camden House?"

"Not at all, John! You took me by surprise, for sure, but apart from a collapsed floor I have erased all traces of our passage. Moran won't pay any attention to a destroyed structure since he will be way more focused on the surprise I have in reserve for him."

"What is it?" asked the doctor, his eyes shining from curiosity.

"Do you want to participate in the capture of Moran? It will be hard and dangerous."

"Try and stop me from helping you!"

"You'll come with me tonight?"

"When you like and where you like."

The two men exchanged a knowing look and then busted out laughing, Sherlock's deep baritone voice making a nice contrast with John's blithe giggles. The detective gave the doctor a one-armed hug and asked:

"This is indeed like the old days, isn't it?"

"Oh God, yes," answered John, his face glowing like the sun in summer.

TBC...


	6. Smoke and mirrors

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- To LienaGrace: aw, you're too kind! Thank you very much for your review.

- James Boswell (1740 – 1795) was a Scottish diarist and author, best known for the live biography he wrote of Samuel Johnson (1709 – 1784).

- "_Miroir aux alouettes"_ in French literally means "larks' mirror". It is a trap made of a rotating plank and small mirrors reflecting the sun to catch birds. Figuratively, it is the equivalent of "to lure".

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><p><strong>Chapter 6: Smoke and mirrors<strong>

The next two hours passed in a blur. Much to John's astonishment, Sherlock asked for food before they would go and capture Colonel Moran! The look of surprise on the doctor's face actually made the younger Holmes smile, and it ended with two men sharing a hearty laugh that did wonders in healing past wounds and pain. There was still a long way to go before they would be entirely freed from the dangerous shadows looming above their heads for too long, especially with the disgraced ex-Colonel lurking about, but Sherlock and John knew they would face it together, and stronger than ever. Their friendship had remained intact, in spite of secrecy causing an atrocious grief, and Sherlock couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief while looking at his friend's beaming, resolute face. Good old John, thought the detective, what a treasure he was! Everything was golden in him: his heart, his soul, his love, even his hair, all this set up in a sturdy frame and a face radiating adorableness. No wonder so many people were jealous of him but the kind-natured doctor was way above this kind of pettiness, including with his relatives.

Sherlock had deduced a long time ago that John's strained relationship with his sister Harry had started from the very beginning, with a jealous four-year-old girl loathing her infant brother for daring to be a boy; this resentment had grown drastically over the years, with John being an eager student while Harry's whimsical nature would drain the strength out of her parents and teachers; John, quiet but popular, would make friends everywhere and Harry would remain in the dust, shunned by the other kids for her diva-like attitude. And of course, Harry would find it easier to blame other people for the big chip on her shoulder, wallowing endlessly in self-pity while biting helping hands at the same time. It hadn't been difficult for the detective to deduce why impoverished John had refrained from asking his wealthy sister for a loan after his return from Afghanistan: the man wouldn't have heard the end of Harry's complains and scorn. How come a good, generous man like John could be related to such a selfish woman was beyond Sherlock's comprehension – but then again, he also had an impossible sibling.

"You truly want to eat something, Sherlock?" asked John, and the soft tone was enough to shake the detective out of his reverie. The younger Holmes shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind; the trap for Moran had to be set quickly for his plan to succeed.

"A dangerous night lies ahead of us; we both need our strength and there is enough time for a mouthful of dinner before we need go."

"But all the food has been cleared of the flat after I moved out three years ago, and I don't think it would be wise to call for take-out. One of Moran's spies could show up at our doorstep disguised as a delivery man, and..."

Sherlock fished a key out of his pants' pocket and tossed it at the doctor, swiftly interrupting his objections. John had barely the time to catch it before it would hit him on the face.

"This is a copy of the key to Mrs. Hudson's door. I... er... "acquired" it years ago, just in case, and I'm sure she won't object if we help ourselves in her fridge. John, could you please go and fix us a snack? We will reimburse Mrs. Hudson for the food, it's a promise."

John knew better than to argue – to tell the truth, he was feeling a bit hungry too – so he went downstairs and opened the door of Mrs. Hudson's flat. Once he had stepped inside, his honest nature made him feel a bit awkward for trespassing on the woman's property, but time was an issue for the entrapment of Moran. John headed for the kitchen and took food out of the refrigerator: Cheddar cheese, ham, bottled water, pickles and mayonnaise. He also borrowed two apples in the vegetable compartment, a bag of barbecue-flavoured potato crisps and a quick inspection of the bread basket brought out loaves of white sandwich bread.

After having picked up knives, spoons and paper towels, John rushed up the stairs like he feared his friend had disappeared again during his absence. But seventeen steps later, he found out he had nothing to worry about: Sherlock was still seated on the green couch, his hands joined under his chin in his favourite thinking-position; apparently, he hadn't moved an inch. However, another glance told the blond-haired man otherwise: several sheets of old newspaper had been spread on the coffee table in an impromptu table cloth, ready for their light meal.

Sandwiches were made within a minute, and the bottled water drenched their thirst after having raided the bag of potato crisps. John couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock's face while eating, which amused the detective tremendously but also brought a feeling of guilt: his friend must have missed him like crazy to act like this, and Sherlock silently vowed to do improve his manners, like: tuning down the snappy remarks about the doctor's intelligence, avoiding mixing body parts with edibles in the fridge, trying not to play the violin too loud at three o'clock in the morning... in short, becoming an almost-acceptable flatmate to be worthy of John's forgiveness.

After the food was gone, Sherlock suggested getting ready and John, always the military man, was up and about in seconds just before realizing he had dropped his gun at Camden House, seconds before he had fallen through the floor. His confusion at the loss of his weapon, mixed with anger at the thought he wouldn't be of any help to Sherlock without it, made the detective smile and he said:

"It isn't lost, John. I took the liberty to retrieve it before picking up after you've knocked yourself out with that termite-eaten floor. Your handgun is in the left pocket of my coat."

"Oh! Well, thank you, Sherlock. It would have been terrible for me if a kid or a tramp had found the gun and then killed an innocent with it."

John took the long, dark coat and indeed, the weapon was tucked inside the left pocket; but his hand made contact with a bulge inside the lining and, unable to contain his curiosity, he searched the right pocket as well and took out a paperback. His ocean-coloured eyes misted as he immediately recognized the cover: it was his book, _"The adventures of Sherlock Holmes"_ and from the looks of it, it had be read many times. John's hands trembled a bit while turning a few pages, remembering the pains but also the pride he had felt during the writing of this book, slowly building a monument in memory of his deceased friend with words instead of stones. After Sherlock's fall, John had devoted all his free time writing his book and had kept on him at all times the USB key containing the manuscript. Anyone trying to steal the key – Mycroft, Moriarty's men, rancorous police officers – would had to take it from the doctor's dead body.

"Sherlock?"

"What, John?"

The detective's stern features brightened slightly at the sight of what John was holding in his hand.

"Oh, this... Yes, I bought it months ago, and it had been very well thumbed."

"What do you think of it?"

Sherlock would normally have answered this kind of question with an acerbic retort: he had never liked stories, not even as a child, and had always preferred scientific books and murder cases for bedtime readings. However, this paperback was the artwork of his _**only**_ friend, who had obviously suffered a lot while writing it and the detective would be damned to Hell before insulting John's loyalty by his usual contempt for fiction.

"Well, my zealous historian, it appears that you have made a small miracle; you have succeeded in interesting me with stories, something that had never happened before."

"These are not exactly _"stories"_, Sherlock," corrected John. "Every word I have penned was true."

"Oh, I don't doubt your honesty, not even for a second. It is just that I've never felt any interest toward fiction and the rare fairy tales I've been imposed to read have been "erased" from my brains a long time ago. I would never have thought our little cases would make good literature but you have proved me wrong and that's a rare feat, indeed!"

John felt prideful at those words, and the detective had a hard time to refrain from laughing at the blush spreading on his friend's face.

"So, you won't mind if I write some more stories about you in the future?"

"Who am I to stop my favourite blogger from typing his fingers away on his keyboard? Speaking of which... If you don't mind me asking, why did you stop posting messages on your blog?"

The doctor's eyes suddenly hardened at the recollection of awful souvenirs following Sherlock's fall from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital:

"I couldn't bring myself to write in it anymore, Sherlock. It had been the cause of all your problems and I've been a fool blogging about our association, spreading vital information about you on the Internet. How could I have been so stupid? You're a private detective, for Christ's sakes, not a columnist gossiping about celebrities! Thousands of people have read my blog and after your "death" massive arguments ran all over social networks, about if you were a fraud or not and the sarcasms, the hysteria or the spiteful comments would have been more than I could bear. So I posted a last entry to say I would always believe in you, and then shut the blog down, vowing to never use it again. Defending your innocence on the Internet was useless, anyway: on-line opinion is rarely considered as trustworthy. This is why I wrote a book, as published writings have an aura of respectability, even in this day and time."

Sherlock got up on his feet and laid both his hands on John's shoulders, his steel-grey eyes locked on his upset friend.

"Oh, John... You do think writing in your blog has played a major role in my fall? Please, get this idea out of your mind; Moriarty had spotted me months before we met. Do you remember the case you named _"A study in pink"_? The cabbie, Jeff Hope, had confessed being sponsored by a man who would encourage his serial killings by depositing vast sums of money for Hope's children at each murder. This diabolical sponsor happened to be a fan of my website, praising every deduction I posted and he knew I would be intrigued by those fake suicides; three guesses who he was?"

"My God!" said the doctor. "After the police had arrived, you mentioned Moriarty's name on our way to the Chinese restaurant. He was the sponsor, wasn't he? The cabbie told you his name before dying?"

"Yes, my dear John. I didn't tell you this detail about a sponsor at the time because I had no idea what the word _"Moriarty"_ meant. It could have been a man, a company or a baby formula, whatever! But the events of _"The Great Game" _forced me to tell you about my suspicions about being tailed by a psychopath – and I am ready to bet General Chan of the Black Lotus gang had been an associate of Moriarty, too. Maybe he helped her to flee the country but most likely, he got rid of her. The consulting criminal had found a kindred spirit with the consulting detective days before we've become flatmates so please, don't sadden your soul with misplaced guilt. Your writing has never been the cause of my demise and besides, even if I don't always approve of your choice of titles for our cases, I have to admit I'd be lost without my Boswell. Ah, that's better!" said Sherlock, seeing the shadow rising from John's face. "I am glad to have lifted a burden from your shoulders. Now, how about entrapping Moriarty's second-in-command and cleaning London's streets from his malevolent presence?"

* * *

><p>In less than half an hour, Sherlock and John were crossing the courtyard behind Camden House after having taken every precaution no one had seen them leaving 221 B Baker Street with the lights still on. Since their former house was spied upon by Moran's men, they had to go down the basement and out by a forgotten cellar window, and then walk through a maze of poorly lit alleyways. John relied entirely on his friend to guide him through those back streets without making a noise, as Sherlock's eyesight in the dark had always been keen and he avoided obstacles with the easiness of a bat.<p>

The doctor was still recovering from Sherlock's miraculous return but, just like in the old days, he was delighted to follow him in another case, with his Browning in his jacket's pocket and the thrill of adventure in his heart. It was as if the last three years had never happened! John was grateful for the darkness, though, so Sherlock couldn't see him smiling from ear to ear; the detective would probably have scolded him about the seriousness of the situation and it wasn't the time to be distracted by trifles.

Sherlock adjusted his scarf around his chin and mouth – he didn't want John to see the irrepressible smile spreading on his lips – and pushed open the back door of Camden House. A quick inspection had confirmed him that no unwanted visitors had come after he had carried an unconscious doctor out of the house, so it was safe to enter. John hadn't had his pocket lamp this time, but it wasn't needed: Sherlock grabbed his friend's wrist and led him forward the familiar long hallway, apparently knowing the empty house like the palm of his hand. In spite of the dim light, John recognized the living-room (with the added pile of planks and debris, making him shudder at the memory of his fall) with its dirty windows; his night vision finally kicked in and he could see the outlines of the staircase, remembering the frailty of the construction.

Sherlock wasted no time and climbed up the steps. John followed suit but then, his foot collided with something lying on the floor, making a soft metallic clank. Intrigued, the shorter man bent to retrieve it and he gave a gasp as he recognized his walking stick, which had been kicked away by Sherlock a few hours ago. Realization hit the doctor hard as he remembered he had completely forgotten his psychosomatic limp since he had woken up in their former address: being with Sherlock had cured his leg, once again! He looked up and, even though the light wasn't enough to discern details, John knew the detective was watching him with a knowing look on his face.

John grabbed his walking stick, not wanting to leave any clue to a potential enemy, and climbed the staircase like he had done earlier by keeping close to the walls. Once he had reached the upper floor, Sherlock took his hand again and guided him to the right-handed bedroom, at the same place where John had surprised him before; avoiding the large gap in the floor, the dark-haired man crouched by the dirty window, whose panes were thick with dust, and gestured to his companion to do the same. Drawing John close, his lips close to the doctor's ear, he whispered:

"Tonight, my dear fellow, we will turn the table on the hunter. The tiger has been prowling around for too long and it is high time we take out the big guns to make him become more reasonable."

"The big guns?" repeated John. "But there is only the two of us and a single Browning. We should have asked Lestrade for reinforcements..."

"Tsk, tsk, we need to be extremely discreet. Moran is an old soldier and he would spot policemen in a snap, especially since those bumbling idiots simply can't stay quiet for a minute with their radios endlessly spouting messages. No, the best way to catch Moran is to focus his attention towards the tied goat, and a spot of light on irresistible bait will hypnotize the Colonel so much he'd forget his own name."

"What on Earth are you talking about? What bait? You have no intention to become a walking target for this madman, are you?"

"Frankly, John, you should know me better than that! In spite of my spectacular dive from St. Bart's, suicide is definitively not in my repertoire. However, it is true that the mere sight of my face would send Sebastian Moran on a murder spree, which would consequently force him to get out of his hole and that's what we want, don't we? Now, this window stands exactly opposite to the ones of our old quarters. Please, and with taking every precaution not to show yourself, would you be so kind to take a peek at our old flat?"

Knowing it was futile to bombard his friend with questions John crept forward and rested his hands on the dusty still; then he raised his head a few inches above the still and looked across at the familiar windows. His dark blue eyes widened as he saw the familiar long silhouette seated in the leather armchair of their living room, next to the fireplace: it was Sherlock!

Gasping in amazement, the doctor threw out his hand to make sure his friend was still crouched next to him. The detective's tall frame was shaking in silent laughter at John's stupefaction.

"So, what do you think?"

"Holy God! It's incredible!" cried the blond man.

"Well, I may have left my heart in London but I certainly didn't forget to pack my brains. The illusion is perfect, isn't it?"

"I could have sworn it was you! How in the world have you managed to find an actor bearing such a striking resemblance with you?"

"It's not an actor; it's me!"

John crouched back again, his eyes locked on the detective.

"Then how can you be here and in 221 B at the same time? Do you have the gift of ubiquity?"

"No, I can't pretend having the ability of being everywhere at once. I am a multi-talented man, but even genius has its limits! These are images diffused by the latest model of volumetric 3-D display devices, without needing a screen to create the illusion of life. That's progress for you! This elaborated marvel had been created and built in Japan last year for medical use, mostly to create 3-D images of brain cancers to help oncologists in their work. I've spent a few days filming myself and, while you were at Mrs. Hudson's flat looking for food, I set the display devices in our living room so the image would be projected on my favourite armchair. The 3-D beam can be controlled from a distance and the remote is in my pocket."

"Good heavens, this is marvellous!" exclaimed John. "While enemies would waste time spying your electronic ghost, we will stay here and spot them!"

"The watchers are being watched, and the trackers tracked... Yes, my dear John, this 3-D display device is my _miroir aux alouettes_ and it will blind the old tiger, leading him right in my trap."

"Are you certain he will come tonight?"

"Oh, yes. The homeless network has done a good job babbling away the rumour about my comeback. Moran will not miss this opportunity to shoot at me from a safe distance, like the good sniper he is. No doubt he had noticed Camden House already and its decrepit state will suit his goal perfectly. With his spies reporting him my "presence" in 221 B, why would Moran have any reserve in avenging his bosom friend? Not to forget the fact that his underworld reputation would be enormously enhanced after my execution, probably winning him the title of Moriarty's undeniable successor."

"He'll never be the new consulting criminal," said John with a rare, steel-like quality in his voice. "We will stop him by any means necessary."

"Yes, we will, Doctor. The old feline won't have a chance to become the Tiger Spider."

TBC...


	7. Behold the enemy

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- To LienaGrace: I am glad you liked the previous chapter. Martin Freeman's picture should figure in the dictionary, next to the word "Adorable"!

- "_The Booted Cat" _or_ "Puss in Boots"_ is a fairy tale written in the seventieth century by French author by Charles Perrault (1628–1703).

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7: Behold the enemy<strong>

The long wait started at Camden House. As the hours flew by, Sherlock and John remained hidden in the shadows, peeking through the dirty window panes to look down at the street. Passer-bys came and went, hurrying home since the weather was turning cold and windy, and their number was thinning at each muffled strike of Big Ben. The full moon was out, gracing the sky with a glorious display of silvery light but, for once, John would have preferred the satellite to under a shroud of clouds. They were lying in wait for a dangerous predator and darkness was their best ally for this task. However, Nature wasn't to be commanded and the moon kept moving in the heavenly dome, shining with all its might and giving an elegant indication of the passing of time.

Sherlock had been pensive and sullen since their last conversation hours ago. His grey eyes had turned into the hardest steel as he watched like a hawk the 3-D image of himself and Baker Street with a refrained impatience that he rarely showed during stakeouts. He would either remain as still as a statue behind the window, either pacing up and down the bedroom at the risk of falling into the gap responsible for John's previous fall. The doctor hadn't tried to make small talk, though: he knew his friend resented this kind of things and exile certainly wouldn't have smoothed the asperities of his character. John felt his stomach tying into knots from the suspense, and yet he wasn't afraid; he knew who the enemy was, the trap was set and his gun was ready. It was just a matter of endurance and John, from his army days and his medical training, had enough patience for two. He could understand Sherlock's anxiousness, since Moran's capture was the home straight and a cruel twist of fate could annihilate three years of harsh labour. Moran could decide to come another day; his spies could have found something fishy about 221 B Baker Street; John could have been spotted entering Camden House earlier in the evening; Moran could have detected the deception behind the electronic image of Sherlock; police informers could have tipped off Lestrade about the younger Holmes' presence in London; Mrs. Hudson could come back from Manchester sooner than expected and been taken hostage; and what if... What if...

John shook his head, clearing those frightening thoughts out of his mind. It wasn't the moment to scare himself with "_What ifs''_, he had to concentrate on his watch! Crouching nearby the sash window's still, he turned his attention back to 221 B, he could see the image of Sherlock moving "out" of the armchair to "walk" through the living room back and forth and then "resuming" its place in the armchair. The realism of the actions was so marvellous, it made John reach out and brush the detective's hand to make sure he still had the real one sitting next to him – an action that would usually make Sherlock chuckle lightly in amusement. Their surveillance had lasted for hours and the doctor had witnessed the 3-D ghost standing up, walking, crossing its legs, waving its hands, all this giving the perfect illusion of life. Of course, it was necessary since Moran wouldn't have been fooled for very long by an image as still as a poster and yet, it unnerved John every time. He hoped their prey would show up soon so his friend's dummy would stop throwing him off-kilter.

Something else was also annoying John: the presence of two men he had spotted sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house in Baker Street. Nothing was remarkable about them – ordinary clothes, calm behaviour – but the former soldier's instincts had kicked in and he knew they were dangerous people. These two men barely talked to each other, avoided eating or smoking and were constantly glancing at 221 B; they had obviously other things in mind than hanging around a gradually clearing street in the wee hours of the night. John had notified Sherlock about their presence but the detective had just given a one-word answer (_"Unimportant")_ about this fact before sitting down on the floor and pressing his fingers against one another, a sure sign of him thinking hard. John hadn't pressed the matter but he was convinced those men had to be watched closely.

Suddenly, Sherlock got on his feet with the violence of an unlatched spring. John, surprised, opened his mouth to ask what the problem was but one look on his friend's face made him silent. Sherlock's handsome features were as rigid as stone, his eyes shining in keen alert. He seized John's hand, hauled him on his feet and, an instant later, the two men had pulled out of the damaged bedroom to hide in the opposite one.

John had barely the time to comprehend what was happening before Sherlock pinned him against mouldy wallpaper and kept him there in an iron-like grip, one warning finger upon his lips. The detective flattened himself against his friend, cocooning John inside the folds of the long coat, and then he whispered in a barely-audible voice:

"He's coming."

John shivered in spite of the warmth of both the woollen garment and Sherlock's body. He hadn't heard a thing but he knew his friend's sense of hearing was as keen as his eyesight. One minute passed, then two, and yet Sherlock never moved an inch, sandwiching John between the wall and him. Then a low, stealthy sound was heard outside Camden House – to be precise, at the backyard of the house. John's hand closed upon the handle of his gun and then he unlocked the safety catch, his throat drying up like in the middle of the Sahara desert. A squeaky noise marked the opening and shutting of the back door; footsteps crept down the hallway: the intruder obviously wanted to be discreet but in this ancient, empty house even the littlest noise reverberated through the damaged walls with the harshness of a Larsen effect – especially for the two men on the alert, upstairs.

The steps of the damaged staircase groaned one after another, making John think: _"The ogre climbs up the stairs of his castle"_, remembering "The Booted Cat" story from his childhood. Sherlock nearly crushing his friend alive against the wall as he promptly covered them both with his dark coat. John understood the detective wanted to shield them both from the intruder, though, and never made a noise of protest in spite of the fact that he couldn't see anything.

The younger Holmes, however, could peek through the folds of his coat and had no trouble seeing the vague outline of a man in the gloomy light, stepping out of the staircase. The intruder was carrying a flat, rectangular suitcase, obviously holding a dismantled shotgun. He was within three yards of the hiding detective and doctor; at any moment, he could have discerned the silhouettes hugging the wall in the opposite bedroom but, by a stroke of luck, he stood only for an instant before entering the damaged bedroom. He avoided the gap on the floor to crouch beneath the sash window, at the exact place where Sherlock and John had been on watch for hours, and deposited his suitcase on the floor. The intruder raised noiselessly the glass pane for half a foot, and then he smiled at the sight of the electronic ghost moving slightly behind the windows of Mrs. Hudson's house.

Sherlock very softly pulled his coat away from his and John's face; peering through the bedroom's entrance, two pairs of gray and dark blue eyes locked on the sinister figure huddled nearby the window. In spite of the dim light, it was easy to see the intruder seemed to be barely able to contain his excitement: his eyes were shining as if they were phosphorous; his lips were curled up in a demonic smile; his whole body had tensed in anticipation, like he was going to jump any moment. He was dressed in black from head to toes but the light coming from Baker Street fell upon his wild, light-coloured hair, the unkempt moustache under a projecting nose and his pointed teeth.

Behold the enemy. Sebastian Moran.

"_Definitively a tiger,"_ thought John, also noticing the intruder's gaunt face scored with deep, savage lines. _"A predator which is irresistibly drawn by the bait; and yet, he can still bolt at the merest sign of alert and disappear, never to be seen again."_

Sherlock's hand landed on the doctor's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze, indicating that he had the situation under control and his plan was working perfectly. John wasn't feeling the same kind of calm, though. The figure in front of them was radiating murder but also unpredictability, just like the infamous Jim Moriarty and the blond man remembered too well the terrible fear he had felt after he had been forced to wear a bomb vest by the psychopath before the confrontation at the pool; however, John refused to let himself being crippled by awful memories and he tightened his grip on the Browning, ready to defend his friend any time.

Moran snickered ever so slightly at the 3-D image "sitting" in an armchair, and then he knelt on the floor to open his suitcase. He worked quickly; in less than a minute, a sniper rifle was assembled to the perfection and former soldier John couldn't help but reluctantly admire the man's skilfulness in handling firearms in the dark. Moran loaded a cartridge in the chamber and, with a maniacal smile on his lips, he crouched down and rested the end of the barrel, equipped with a sound suppressor, upon the ledge of the open window. He cuddled the butt of the rifle into his shoulder and locked his shining gaze on Sherlock's electronic ghost; the expression on his face turned from demented to concentrated, every inch the sniper on a mission. Moran stayed rigid, almost motionless for a moment but John knew he was actually adjusting his aim through the telescopic sight.

Then, Moran pressed on the trigger. A soft coughing noise preceded the silvery tinkle of broken glass, a testimony that the window of 221 B Baker Street had been shattered. At that instant, Sherlock jumped on the hit man's back and hurled him flat against the floor. In the confusion, the sniper rifle fell down on the dirty wooden planks as well but the two fighting men paid it no attention. Moran roared like a giant cat and, kicking furiously, he managed to get on his feet. He couldn't make out who his attacker was in the gloom but this kind of detail didn't matter to the former Colonel. He punched the detective right on the face before wrapping both hands on Sherlock's throat, squeezing the life out of him as the younger man was wriggling desperately on the floor.

"No!" roared John as well. Shooting in the dim light was too dangerous so he swung his arm furiously and struck Moran on the head with the butt of his handgun. The enemy let out a shocked gasp, as if he were utterly surprised someone have dared to hit him, and then he dropped upon on the planks like a fallen tree.

"Sherlock!"

"I'm fine, John."

"Don't give me your tough guy act," grumbled the doctor, annoyed that his friend still hadn't learned to take care of himself during his absence. He held out his hand and Sherlock gratefully accepted it to get back on his feet. Then, the two friends looked down at the senseless man on the floor.

"Do you have any handcuffs?" asked John.

"No," answered Sherlock while arranging his shirt's collar.

"Damn it! How are we going to tie him up? I haven't seen any rope lying about in this house."

"It won't be necessary," said the detective while taking his phone out of his coat's pocket. He hit a number on the speed dialling and, a few seconds later, a muffled voice could be heard in the earphone.

"_Yes?"_

"It's done," was the laconic answer of the younger Holmes.

"_Okay."_

Sherlock shut down his Smartphone and put it back in his pocket, while John was looking at him with rounded eyes.

"Who have you been talking to? Is it Mycroft?"

"My dear John, after all these years you should know by now my brother is deeply allergic to any kind of legwork. He's not the kind to stay out in the streets all night, waiting for a murderer to show up – not even in the comfort of his beloved limousine. However, he's very good for delegating this kind of tasks. Would you be so kind to take a look at the street?"

John complied and the first thing he saw was the broken window pane of their living-room's window, and he absurdly thought about Mrs. Hudson and how she would be upset at them again for damaging her property. Then, he looked down and his heart skipped a beat as he saw the two men spotted earlier had left the doorway; they were quickly crossing Baker Street, in the direction of Camden House.

"Sherlock! The two men... The guys who were hanging around, they are coming right at us!"

"Why, of course. I just gave them the signal to come."

"What?"

"These two men that you mistook for Moran's spies are in fact employees of Mycroft. Brother Dear sent them here for back-up and to be ready for a forceful intervention in case my trap would fail. Good thing it hasn't, but still I wouldn't mind a little bit of help to truss the Colonel up like a chicken. Poor Moran, in a minute he will change from a tiger into a volatile!"

Barely-audible footsteps signaled the presence of other human beings in Camden House, and John almost jumped out of his skin after the two men noiselessly climbed the staircase and reached the upper floor. Sherlock gave no indication of being impressed by their stealth, though: he merely nodded his head in the direction of Moran, who was grunting on the floor, and the men wasted no time tying the shooter's hands with plastic cuffs. Then they hurled Moran on his feet, paying no attention to his groans of pain, and held him between them, supporting his weight.

"Thank you, gentlemen," said Sherlock. John couldn't bring himself to say something, though: Mycroft's creatures had indeed a sinister appearance at a closer look and there were no doubts in the doctor's mind that they had an encyclopedic knowledge about how to end a life – a far cry from cool-as-a-cucumber Anthea, Mycroft's personal assistant, a sharp-dressed woman constantly playing with her mobile phone.

"You have contacted the police as well, I hope?" asked Sherlock.

"They're on their way, Sir; we made it clear DI Lestrade was to come."

"Good!"

"Lestrade?" said John.

Sherlock glanced at his friend.

"Problem?"

"No," whispered the doctor. He did have a problem about meeting Lestrade after three years of estrangement but he didn't want to talk about it in front of Mycroft's men.

Sherlock decided to not press the matter on; in less than a minute, police sirens could be heard in the background while a few loiterers, alarmed by the sound of the broken glass, had begun to collect in Baker Street. Tires screeched, car doors slammed and the clatter of running feet upon the macadam signaled the arrival of the armed forces. Mycroft's men tightened their grip on Moran, who was starting to come around, as the sound of a herd of panicked elephants entering Camden House could be heard all over the neighborhood. The staircase was climbed on once again – one of the steps cracked neatly under the pressure, making a man curse loudly – and finally a half-dozen PCs in uniform, carrying pocket lamps, invaded the bedroom, following the lead of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and dressed with a dark blue jacket.

"Holy God!" exclaimed the man. "Is it really you, Sherlock?"

"It is me indeed, Lestrade," replied the younger Holmes, his hard eyes locked on the Detective Inspector. "I figured you would want a little unofficial help again, since London's crime rate had increased quite a lot during my absence. Five unsolved murders in one year is unacceptable, Lestrade; they are so simple even a three-year-old could have done the job! But I've got to admit the Molesey Mystery had been handled without your usual... Oh, let's just say you did better than usual and be done with it."

John tried very hard not to smile at the backhanded compliment, but another groan from Moran promptly reminded everyone present about the dangerous man in cuffs. The constables raised their lamps and the light beams fell upon the Colonel, illuminating his features – the doctor noticed Mycroft's men, while holding Moran, were also hiding their faces by remaining behind the prisoner. A trickle of blood was running down Moran's face, a testimony of having being recently struck on the head, and yet it didn't stop him from struggling against his bounds in a futile attempt to break free. John took out his handgun and aimed it at Moran, followed by Lestrade but the murderer paid them no heed. His cruel blue eyes remained fixed upon Sherlock's face with a mixed expression of hate, anger and desperation.

"Bastard!" roared Moran. "Clever bastard!"

"Ah, Colonel, fancy meeting you at long last," said Sherlock in a calm tone, as if he was meeting a good acquaintance in a pub. "You can't imagine my disappointment after missing you in Columbia and Ireland, but this reunion in certainly makes up for it. What better than a dilapidated house to find a rat?"

"Smart-aleck bastard!" screamed Moran at the top of his lungs, like a man possessed.

"Enough!" interfered Lestrade.

"Oh, where are my manners? I have not introduced you to our guest, Detective Inspector. This gentleman is Colonel Sebastian Moran, formerly of the Royal Armoured Corps and the best sniper of Her Majesty's Army before being dishonourable discharged on suspicion of murdering innocent civilians in the ex-Yugoslavia war of the 1990s. He has since embraced a hit man career, offering his services to any petty criminal willing to pay his fees."

John, still aiming at Moran, couldn't repress a shudder: the Colonel bore a striking resemblance to him. They had about the same height and they both had light-coloured hair (blond for John, dirty white for Moran) and blue eyes (deep ocean against hard sapphires). Also, like John, Moran was lean but muscular, judging by the efforts of Mycroft's men to keep him still. The doctor remembered the conversation he had earlier with Sherlock in 221 B; his friend had told him about Moriarty electing one of his goons as his "sidekick" just to imitate the detective out of spite, and how he had picked up Moran for the qualities he shared with John. But the comparison didn't end there: Moriarty had probably chosen Moran also because he made a horrible caricature of John Watson.

"Foxy, damned bastard!" screamed the Colonel. "I'll kill you if it's the last thing I do! Your luck won't last forever!"

Sherlock snorted at that threat, but then the prisoner added: "And I'll off that little doctor of yours as well! I'll send you his head as a souvenir!"

The younger Holmes moved as fast as lightning; before anyone could react, he had grabbed Moran by the collar and lifted him a few inches above the floor, in spite of Mycroft's men trying to pull him off.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John.

"Let him go, Holmes! We have him covered, he can't escape!" added Lestrade.

But Sherlock paid no attention to the Detective Inspector's orders. Moran's face was quickly turning red from the lack of air but his bulging eyes made contact with the younger Holmes' incandescent gaze, shining from a frightening inner rage.

"One hair... Touch one hair on John's head and _I will skin you alive_!"

TBC...


	8. The mighty has fallen

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- To LienaGrace: Thank you! I have toyed with the idea that if Moriarty was Sherlock's evil twin, then it would be logical Moran was John's. And I am glad we are on the same wavelength about Martin Freeman ;-)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8: The mighty has fallen<strong>

"Sherlock!"

Simultaneous cries from Doctor Watson and DI Lestrade didn't stop the detective from strangling Colonel Moran. The younger Holmes looked akin to a bird of prey with his eyes as hard as flint stones and his claw-like fingers wrapped around the man's neck. Moran let out a pitiful squeak and his struggles became less forceful, even Mycroft's men had a hard time maintaining their hold on the prisoner. The uniformed constables were looking at the scene with rounded eyes, undecided about what to do since Lestrade couldn't decide to give orders. John, fearing the DI would take another wrong decision, decided to take action; otherwise, his friend would be thrown in a prison cell and it wouldn't be a glorious return from the dead for the world's only consulting detective. Jumping forward, he seized Sherlock's arm with both hands and shouted:

"Sherlock, let go of him! He's not worth it!"

"No, but _**you **_are," replied Sherlock in an icy voice, tightening his grip on Moran's throat. The former Colonel had lost all his arrogance and was gurgling loudly, a pale image of the dangerous man he had been a minute ago.

In desperation, John begged his friend:

"Let him go, Sherlock. Don't throw your new life away; you've waited for three years to catch that Moriarty arse-licker, you are not going to leave London again over the tiny matter of his death!"

"Tiny matter?" repeated an astonished Lestrade, but John paid him no heed.

"Sherlock, this man is nothing. He's scum. Don't lower to his level by killing him. Let him rot with the cockroaches in prison, that's his place. Sherlock, please?"

The gentle plea made the detective suddenly drop Moran, who would have fallen on the dirty floor like a sack of potatoes if not for Mycroft's men. The Colonel coughed loudly as air entered his lungs again, his blood-shot eyes rolling in his sockets. He would have been comical if he had been a cartoon character, but inside this empty house, after a foiled hit and surrounded by police officers he was downright pitiful.

"You're right, John. Lestrade, could you ask your least irritable constables to seize Colonel Moran and take him down to the police station?"

The DI barked the needed orders and two heavily-built uniforms grabbed Moran before clasping the handcuffs on him. Mycroft's employees retreated in the darkest corners of the bedroom, unwilling to let their faces being exposed to the pocket-lamps' light for too long. Lestrade glanced at them and then asked a silent question to Sherlock.

"Just acquaintances of mine," answered the detective, obviously not wanting to elaborate on that matter. Lestrade raised an eyebrow, but John shook his head negatively: some questions were best left unanswered and it was better to let the Shadow People remain in the background, for the policeman's sake.

Moran regained enough breath and composure to glare hatefully at the younger Holmes, growling and snarling like a wild cat, a trickle of saliva running from the corner of his mouth. He sprang forward in rage but the constables dragged him back, in spite of being way too close to the gap in the floor. John noticed out of the corner of his eye that the electronic image of Sherlock behind the 221 B window was flickering, like on a broken television screen.

"How the mighty has fallen!" said Sherlock. "Truly, Colonel Moran, I wonder how you could have been deceived by such a simple stratagem. Did your thirst for revenge blinded you, or was it just a case of plain stupidity? Frankly, being fooled by a hunting trap as old as the hills, it is kind of disappointing coming from a veteran _shikari_ like you. Tie a goat or a monkey at a tree, lie in wait above it with your rifle, and wait until the bait brings the tiger out of the forest's shadows. Well, this abandoned house is the tree I've been hiding in with my friend, and a 3-D image of my modest person made the perfect bait. Of course, a bit of reinforcement was also needed to cage the Tiger Man, which is where Detective Inspector Lestrade and his merry men came out on handy, including a few allies thrown in for good measure. I confess you surprised me about one point, Moran: I was certain you would fire your shot from Baker Street, instead of using Camden House's convenient front window. Guess I underestimated your cowardice: you were probably too worried a passer-by may spot your little game, so you opted for a better firing place. Ah, there is always something missing! But apart from this exception, the plan worked as I expected."

The fury on Moran's face was almost unbearable to look at but then, he suddenly straightened his back and said in a disdainful voice:

"I have nothing to say to this show-off, _amateur _detective. Just remember, gentlemen, I've defended our country and I expect to receive the honours due to my rank!"

John inwardly thought Moran was definitively as unhinged as his former master, since he could change from psychopath to snobbish would-be lord in a blink of an eye. His complete change of attitude disconcerted some of the constables but Lestrade never faltered, keeping his gun aimed right at Moran and looking ready to use it any moment.

"Forget it!" shot the Detective Inspector back. "You are a murderer like the rest of Moriarty's lot and you will be treated like any other prisoner. Okay, that's enough! Turner and Jackson, take the prisoner downstairs, mind the gap and do not, under any circumstances, let go of him. I want this man locked up in a car in less than two minutes, got it?"

"Yes, Sir!" answered the two constables in chorus, and the group of uniforms moved towards the staircase. Moran let them lead him outside but he kept on grumbling threats under his breath, snarling like a wild bull in chains.

"By the way, Lestrade," said Sherlock with his trademark half-smile on his lips, while picking up from the floor the sniper gun Moran had used for his assassination attempt. "You may find the study of this gun to be most interesting. May I commend it to the undivided attention of your CID's? Of course such a case needs competence so, for Heaven's sake, don't ask an idiot to supervise the analysis!"

"All right, fine," said Lestrade while re-holstering his gun. "But, Sherlock, how is it that you can still be alive? I mean..."

"And, Lestrade?" interrupted the detective in a sharp voice. "Also make sure that Moran is officially charged for the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair."

"What?" exclaimed John, genuinely shocked. "But Sherlock, Moran tried to kill you!"

"Yes, he must answer for this!" said Lestrade.

"Believe me, Detective Inspector, there are more pressing matters than this feeble attempt on my life, namely the solving of the Park Lane case. Crime rates have been growing steadily up during my absence, yes? Well, the analysis of this sniper gun will prove, without any doubts, that this weapon has been used to shoot down the young Adair and, with Moran's fingerprints all over it, proving his culpability will be a breeze. A high-profile case like this will shake the criminals' confidence and make them realise their golden age is over. I am back in town, I will solve cases – whether Scotland Yard likes it or not – and London will become a safer city again. Now, Lestrade, if my information are correct, your career has taken quite a nosedive after my disappearance, has it not?"

The Detective Inspector could hardly say otherwise; shortly after Sherlock had jumped, the Bruht girl had told her parents that she had made a mistake: the tall, dark-haired man she had seen at the hospital wasn't their kidnapper, since the real culprit had brown eyes. Her little brother had confirmed her statement when he had came out of his coma, confirming the man also had rotten teeth and a small scar on his left cheekbone. The testimonies of the Bruht children destroyed the accusations against Sherlock, and the Detective Inspector had to explain to his superiors where his clues leading to Sherlock's arrest had come from. Needless to say, they were less than pleased learning he had charged an innocent man without any tangible proofs and Lestrade had been very close to lose his job. The abandon of all charges had infuriated the public and the press; Lestrade would never forget seeing his picture on the tabloids' front pages, with the word "INCAPABLE" written in bold letters above it. For three years he had received tons of insulting e-mails from the _"I believe in Sherlock Holmes"_ fans, his wife had divorced him and the most boring cases had been put on his desk. Receiving a phone call from Mycroft Holmes earlier in the evening had felt like a godsend!

"Yes, it did. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I do believe congratulations are in order! With your usual cunning and audacity, you have coordinated the remarkable arrest of Colonel Sebastian Moran, former First Lieutenant of criminal mastermind Moriarty and murderer of the Honourable Ronald Adair. Your slightly damaged reputation will be enormously enhanced in the Force!"

"You don't want your name to appear in the report?"

"What for? I've spent enough time running after Moriarty's creatures and it's high time to put a final end in this interminable chase. Besides, it's getting late and I wouldn't mind a few hours of peace and quiet at 221 B."

"You do look a bit tired, Sherlock," said John and this time, it was the doctor who was speaking. "How do a cup of tea in our flat sounds?"

"I would like that very much," said the detective, smiling at his friend.

Sherlock nodded to Lestrade to step out of the passage. Obviously, he wasn't in the mood to explain the conditions of his miraculous come-back and the Detective Inspector knew better than to insist. John excused himself for a minute to retrieve his walking stick he had left in a corner of the damaged bedroom and then, raising his head, he noticed that the 3-D image had disappeared from behind the window; but – and he jumped slightly at the sight – so had Mycroft's men. It made two persons and an image to vanish in less than a minute that the doctor wondered for a second if he hadn't been truly dealing with ghosts. Sherlock gently grabbed John's arm and squeezed, in a silent demand to not ask questions out loud about the Shadow People's whereabouts, and then the two men walked out of the bedroom to reach the staircase.

* * *

><p>Once they have reached the lower level, Sherlock and John walked by the living room and something caught John's eye: the mattresses he had landed on during his first visit on Camden House were sporting new dust traces, obviously the mark of footprints. In fact, it looked like one or two persons had walked on the dirty mattresses but it wouldn't make a lot of sense since the items were piled up and standing on it would be pretty pointless. Unless...<p>

The doctor raised upwards his dark blue eyes, in the direction of the gap in the ceiling. Could Mycroft's men have...?

"You are right, my dear John," whispered Sherlock at his friend's ear. "Mycroft's employees have used your involuntary act of destruction as an emergency exit to avoid being asked embarrassing questions by the police. A little jump, a soft landing on these handy mattresses and the job is done. Discreet persons, are they not?"

"I'll say," chuckled John. "It's a pity we haven't thanked them for their help."

"Don't worry about that, a hefty check will compensate for their sleepless night. That's the good thing about spies, money arranges everything."

The doctor and the detective exited Camden House by the front door this time, and found themselves in a whirlwind of activity: police cars painted in blue, yellow and orange fluorescent colours were coming and going, rotating blue lights were flashing, messages were overheard in portable radios while men and women in uniform were trying to contain busybodies from interfering with the operation. The noise had woken up the inhabitants of Baker Street and more than a sleepy head was peeking through curtains at the commotion downstairs. Moran was still fuming and his face was twisted in rage as the constables were struggling to make him climb inside a response car, but to no avail.

"I'll kill you, Holmes!" roared the insane man. John instinctively drew closer to the detective in a protective gesture. "I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll..."

Suddenly, one of the constables got fed up with Moran's tirade and whacked him over the head with a swift movement of the hand. The movement made the Colonel's skull bump against the roof of the car and the shock made him speechless and motionless for a little while; the uniformed seized the occasion to grab him again and threw him on the car's back seat, before slamming the door loudly on their dangerous prisoner. Sherlock let out a small sigh of impatience.

"Well, it was about time to close the cage! What in the world were they waiting for?"

"Give them some credit, Sherlock. It's not every day the Force has to deal with a stark-raving mad tiger," said John.

The younger Holmes scoffed at those words, probably thinking of a thousand ways he could have done the job with more efficiency, but then the constable who had knocked Moran out approached the two men and, with a small smile, he said:

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

John's eyes widened but Sherlock merely nodded in the direction of the uniformed man – whose identification badge was reading "Turner". Apparently, the famous blog was still avidly read on the Internet, even though the doctor had stopped posting updates years ago and Sherlock-believers weren't limited to fans or people needing help on cases; there were also people within Scotland Yard who didn't look down at the amateur detective but actually appreciated his help and insight.

Turner walked away after his calm declaration, but all of a sudden a furious woman in a police uniform walked towards the duo and yelled:

"I can't believe it! You... You are here, Freak!"

John felt his blood boiling inside his veins in anger as he recognized the harpy: it was Sally Donovan, the DS who had thrown those wild accusations against Sherlock about the Bruht kidnapping. The woman had been mad of jealousy towards the younger Holmes, calling him a freak and a psychopath whenever they met but her attempts to ridicule his genius in solving crimes had always failed, revealing her complete lack of self-control and manners in the process. Her resentment had grown steadily over the years, especially after Sherlock had casually revealed in a conversation that Anderson was having an adulterous affair with Donovan, which had turned into the subject of endless slander and ridicule in the Yard's bathrooms. John had asked his friend once why she was so eager to denigrate him and Sherlock had confessed the woman had tried a seduction act on him, at the early beginnings of his cooperation with the police; Donovan's deal had been simple: clues about murders, in exchange of sex. His help would boost her career and she would put an end to his loneliness. But Sherlock had thrown her out in the street, stating he could recognize a disguised prostitute when he saw one; Donovan, furious and humiliated, had vowed eternal war against the consulting detective.

John was getting ready to give the woman a piece of his mind about her past, revolting accusations against Sherlock but then something puzzling caught his eye: why was Donovan wearing a uniform?

"Well, well!" said the younger Holmes. "Isn't it Sally Donovan _"in poison"_?"

"Freak!" screeched the woman, regardless of the scene she was making in front of her colleagues and the public gathered behind the police lines. "How can you be here? You died, Freak! You jumped from the hospital roof, like a coward!"

"And I have resurrected, like the legendary salamander. Does it displease you? I truly hope so!"

"Freak! Psychopath! You... You..."

"I have been cleared of all charges about the Bruht kidnapping, by the way. Oh, but you are certainly quite aware of this, since after my demise you have been suspended for six months – without pay – and demoted from Detective Sergeant to Police Constable; the high-ranking executives at Metro haven't taken lightly the fact you have charged an innocent man without any real proofs, thus raising a very grave scandal and ruining your already fiendish reputation in the Force. The colleagues you've had sex with in the past all turned their backs on you, and the Chief Superintendant wasn't willing to help you either since he approved my arrest against all kinds of intelligent reasoning. He had to resign shortly after being convoked by the Commissioner, hadn't he? And pathetic Sally had to watch her hopes to become the first female Commissioner of London being flushed down the toilet like smelly excrements. Sex is the frailest base to build on a career, Donovan. Why do you think I avoid it?"

"FREAK!" yelled Donovan at the top of her lungs, her eyes bulging out of their sockets and spraying saliva everywhere. She was making a remarkable imitation of Moran and the Colonel stopped his struggles inside the police car to look at the scene, surprised by this witch in uniform who was visibly holding a grudge against his archenemy.

"Shut up, Donovan!" barked Lestrade, but his order fell on deaf ears. The woman had clearly lost her mind at the sight of her nemesis back from the dead. For three years she had endured humiliations, a public disgrace, the ruin of her lifelong dreams and her sole consolation had been Sherlock's suicide, the only thing that had prevented her from resigning. Whenever the snickering had been too dreadful to endure, she had paid a visit to the Freak's tomb and insulted his memory with the foulest words of her vocabulary – the graveyard keeper had kicked her out of the cemetery the third time he caught her, stating her disrespect for the dead was inadmissible.

"NATURE'S FREAK! YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A MONSTER, DO YOU HEAR ME? A MONSTER!"

"Donovan! If you don't shut up, I'll forget you're a woman!" shouted John, who was beginning to see red. "I've chinned a Chief Superintendant before and I won't have any scruples doing the same to a police constable!"

Sherlock calmly put his hand on the outraged doctor's shoulder.

"It won't be necessary, John. C'mon, let's have our tea."

"I'm sick and tired of this woman's insults towards you, Sherlock! If Lestrade don't make her shut her mouth, I will!"

"Now, now, my dear fellow! Let us have a bit of compassion towards Donovan. After all, she is entitled to be a bit unstable since she has managed to make such a spectacular fool of herself, eighteen months ago."

John's anger evaporated like mist under the sun at those words.

"Hunh? What do you mean?"

"You haven't kept a thorough account of the news during my absence, have you, John?" asked the detective in a mock scorning tone.

"Sorry, Sherlock, but considering the way the police and the press had slandered you for the Bruht kidnapping, I truly wasn't in the mood to watch the news after your... demise. I was so disgusted by the actions of these backstabbers," said the doctor with a meaningful glance at Lestrade, who had the good grace to blush in embarrassment, "I simply refused to turn on the telly, surf on the Internet or even take a glance at newspapers; I lived like a hermit and London could have fall, I wouldn't have given a damn. But it was better for everyone; otherwise, I don't think I would have been able to stop myself from punching a certain DI on the nose!"

"That's too bad, because an article published in the tabloids eighteen months ago would have made you smile, even just for a little bit."

"Which article?"

Muffled laughter ran among the crew of constables, much to John's amazement, and the soft sound was enough to cut Donovan's rambles short. Turner dug inside a pocket of his uniform's vest and took out a folded piece of paper, which he held out to the doctor:

"I think he means _**this**_ article, Doctor Watson."

John unfolded the paper, barely aware of Donovan's sharp intake of breath, and then he gasped in surprise: it was indeed an article cut from the front page of a tabloid newspaper, with a huge colour photo showing Donovan and Anderson in an open doorway, under a street light. Anderson's pants had pooled on his feet and, even if his posterior was partly hidden by his shirt-tails, it didn't take much imagination to understand what he had been doing. Donovan had her bare legs wrapped around Anderson's waist, her panties hanging from her left ankle. Anderson was looking in horror at the photographer while Donovan was veiling her face under her long dark tresses. The article's main title was: "HARD AT WORK!" and the subtitle added: _"CID and PC have strange ways to relax during investigating crime scenes"_. A caption under the photo read: _"And you wonder why crime rates are up?"_

The doctor turned astonished eyes towards Sherlock, who merely shrugged: "Not my doing, John. Paparazzi are everywhere and ghastly photos of murder victims are a sure way to earn a good pay check, so these vultures are always prowling around crime scenes. Anderson should have been more careful, sex in the open is always perilous and he has never been the soul of discretion. He lost his job but his partner has gotten out scot-free, hasn't she, Sally? Anderson gave her name in a desperate attempt to save his own skin, but she fought back tooth and nail, stating the woman in the photograph couldn't be identified; Anderson got the boot in the end but everyone in the Force damn well knows who he was having a tryst with."

John coughed loudly to hide his laughter, and then he handed back the article to Turner but the constable stopped him:

"No need, Doctor Watson, we have hundreds of colour photocopies at the office."

"We are definitively overdue for a cup of tea!" said Sherlock. "Considering the way you are coughing, John, you must have caught a cold while waiting for Moran. Or maybe you are suffering from a bout of allergy? It wouldn't be surprising, considering the amount of dust we had to inhale in this empty house but I am ready to bet you are developing an allergy to stupidity. If it's the case, it is better to keep you away from Donovan. C'mon, Doctor, it's time for your medicine!"

Sherlock grabbed the doctor by the arm and led him towards 221 B Baker Street, supporting John's weight the whole time since his friend was doubled over, coughing so hard his sides were aching.

TBC...


	9. Sun in splendour

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- To LienaGrace: thank you! I am glad you liked the article about Donovan and Anderson.

- This chapter is ultra-smarmy! Read at your own risk! ;-)

- Chrétien de Troyes was a twelfth-century French poet who wrote among other stories _"__Yvain, the Knight of the Lion__"_,_ "__Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart__" _and_ "__Perceval, the Story of the Grail__"_.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9: Sun in splendour<strong>

Luckily, the walk back home was uneventful – otherwise, Sherlock would have had a hard time fending off curious police officers, annoying journalists or unwanted fans while supporting the weight of his coughing-mad friend. John was hiding his reddened face behind his hands, his breathing imperilled by the tremors shaking him from head to toes. Only after the door of 221 B Baker Street had slammed behind the two men did John stop to sit down on the corridor's floor, laughing his head off. Sherlock crouched by his side, gently rubbing the doctor's back while patiently waiting for him to calm down – to tell the truth, he was enjoying himself listening to his friend's giggles. After a long moment, John finally managed to get a partial control on his diaphragm, making the hiccups a bit less violent, and he croaked:

"That was... ridiculous. That... was the most (hic!) ridiculous thing... I've ever (hic!) read!"

"The article?" said Sherlock, raising his eyebrows in an aristocratic manner.

"Gosh, yes. How could Ander(hic!)son and Donovan act like perfect imbeciles? I mean, (hic!) sex in the open isn't exactly intelligent in a crowded city filled with (hic!) CCTVs, but they have to go and (hic!) destroy their reputation by dropping their pants nearby a crime scene, a (hic!) sure place to find photographers and TV crews!"

"If I had known this article would make you laugh so much, I would have mailed it to you months ago, my dear John!"

"And I don't know why (hic) I'm laughing, either. God knows, I'm not the kind to kick downed people but... I can't find it in myself to sympathize to their plight, it is so (hic) idiotic!"

"When we were children, Mummy would always tell Mycroft and I that you reap what you've sown. Donovan is a mediocre person filled with ambition and a deep hatred towards intellectual superiority. Since she obviously couldn't boost her career by using her brains, Sally thought being "friendly" towards men with a semblance of authority would grant her enough support to rise within the ranks – and play the sexism victim whenever one of her "targets" would be indifferent to her seduction act. As for Anderson, he's unfaithful to the bone and would jump on any skirt pretending to be interested in him. The poor fool has been completely clueless about Sally's little game, and now he's working for an undertaker to pay his ex-wife's alimony! Well, at least in this place he's unlikely to make a mess out of crime scenes. Come on, now, there's a cup of tea upstairs with our names on it."

"By the way, Sherlock (hic!), have you n-noticed your 3-D image (hic) has disappeared from our window?"

"Why, yes. The batteries of the projectors must have gone flat. I was worried about that, by the way: if Moran had come just half an hour later, he would have seen my electronic "ghost" flickering and then vanish from lack of electric current, thus prompting his immediate departure from his shooting spot. A good thing Moran came in on early, didn't he?"

The detective hauled a still-hiccupping John up on his feet but, before the two men could start to climb the seventeen steps leading to their flat, the blond man stopped to brush his hand across Sherlock's coat, mostly over the left breast.

"What are you doing?" asked a puzzled detective.

John stepped back, and smiled at his friend: "Just (hic) brushing away the last remnants of straw."

Genuinely moved, Sherlock seized John's hand and headed upstairs. Then, he led his friend to the green leather couch, instructing him to sit down and stay put until the tremors were gone, and then he busied himself in the cluttered kitchen. It was a well-known fact Sherlock was completely clueless – no pun intended – in preparing food but at least, his gentlemanly education had made him a master in making tea. Five minutes later, he had readied a tray with cups filled with hot and aromatic Earl Grey, saucers and spoons. They were out of milk and sugar but it was too late to try and find a 24/7 grocery store.

Sherlock repressed a shiver from running up his spine at the thought of the last time he had used this elaborated tea set: it had been during Moriarty's visit at the flat, right after the madman had been cleared of all charges for his break-in at the Tower of London. The detective had offered tea and Moriarty had seized the occasion to whisper threats in a very soft voice, promising Hellfire and punishments to him for having thwarted his plans regarding the Royal family. To think Sherlock had to wait for three years to lay his eyes upon this particular tea set again...

Frowning at this sudden attack of sentiment, Sherlock picked up the tray and walked back to the living-room. John was still seated as per instructed; the hiccups had stopped and he was rubbing his face with both hands in a vain attempt to chase away the fatigue of the night. But the detective knew better and it wouldn't be long before his friend would surrender to Morpheus' call, worn out by the recent events.

"Here you are," said Sherlock, deposing the set on the coffee table.

"Oh, thank you. This will do the trick, definitively." answered John while trying to stifle a yawn behind his hand. After a few minutes of sipping warm tea and enjoying a quiet moment, Sherlock scrutinized the doctor's tired face and drew the inevitable conclusion:

"There is something burning on your lips, my dear blogger, and it isn't tea. In fact, I'm ready to bet it is a question!"

"Yes," admitted John, too tired to argue or even ask how Sherlock had deduced it. "You haven't told me Moran's motive for shooting the Honourable Ronald Adair."

"Oh, that! It's not nearly as important as smoking out the old tiger, but since it is apparently of interest to you then I shall tell you: Moran shot Adair simply because the young fellow has found out the Colonel had been cheating while playing poker on-line."

"Really?"

"Why, yes. Kids those days are computer wizards and Ronald Adair wasn't just a young lord with money-filled pockets and too much time on his hands; he was also a good investigator on the Internet and, with the proper training, he would have been an asset to Scotland Yard's Cyber Crimes division. Anyway, Adair had been Moran's partner for on-line poker sessions and between them, they have won a considerable amount of money. But undoubtedly Adair grew suspicious of his "partner" and so, he started searching and quickly found out the information Moran had left on the poker's site about his background were completely false. Fearing a crook, Adair pushed further and arranged a meeting with Moran under the pretext they would elaborate a better playing strategy if they could speak to each other face-to-face. The Colonel accepted, since he was in such financial dire straits any opportunity to raise money was welcome. But Adair confronted him about the fraudulent information about his identity and threatened to expose him to the on-line poker games' webmasters. Moran, fearing an embarrassing investigation, proposed a bribe but Adair was honest, and flatly refused. The only solution for the Colonel was to murder Adair before he would talk to some high-ranking persons in the police: a young lord is likely to be well-connected. Hence, Moran had to shut this potential blabbermouth and his sniper talents came in on handy."

"This man has served his country and yet, he has chosen to get thick with Moriarty," muttered John in his teacup. "To think I may have met Moran during my Army days..."

"Believe it or not, John, but for years Moran's military career has been an exemplary one. Maybe you did catch sight of him in the past, but then you probably wouldn't have seen anything but a man of iron nerve, issued from a respectable family and with a spotless record, the epitome of an officer and a gentleman. Up to a certain point he did well, but once he reached the grade of Colonel the twisted side of his character got passionate with the respect due to his rank. This plus his perfect command on guns made him drunk on the power of life or death over his fellow human beings, only to get kicked out of the Army in disgrace. His family quietly disowned him and that was a bitter blow for Moran; a man of his so-called quality simply couldn't be left to rot in the gutter along with ordinary mortals! That's when Moriarty found him, patched up his wounded pride and gave him a golden opportunity to play God again."

John drained his cup and put it back on the tray, and then he locked his ocean eyes on Sherlock's steel ones.

"So, it is over, now?"

"Yes, my dear fellow, it is finished. Moriarty's gang is broken beyond any repair, and doubtless the news of Moran's arrest will discourage other criminals to take up the reins – especially since Brother Dear won't miss the occasion to "interrogate" the Colonel in his prison cell about eventual remains of Moriarty's organization. Journalists will announce my come-back in a blaze of publicity and it will also warn the wrongdoers their carefree days are over. Sherlock Holmes is back, so watch out!"

The doctor had a soft chuckle, and added: "Let's just hope those pen pushers will be a little bit more honest than Kitty Riley."

"Oh! Speaking of whom..."

Sherlock was about to tell something about the despicable woman but something caught his attention: John's eyes were getting glassy and it was a sure sign the man would fall asleep soon.

"But it's a story for another time. Right now, you're dead on your feet and you should get some rest, my dear John."

"What 'bout you?" asked a yawning doctor.

"Don't you know how I feel about sleeping by now?" asked the younger Holmes as he took the tray from the coffee table and walked towards the kitchen to put the teacups in the sink. "I've always found it a waste of time; besides, Lestrade will probably show up at first light to get my statement and I need to clear my head; a few hours of silence would be welcome."

John took off his cable-knit jumper, revealing a white T-shirt beneath, and kicked away his shoes with a sigh of relief. The emotions of the night were taking their toll on him and the idea to lie down for a while was certainly engaging; but where could he sleep? His bed in the upstairs bedroom had been stripped years ago and Sherlock's was probably covered with dust. The blond man took a glance at the green leather couch, and shrugged: he had slept on much worst places...

Meanwhile, the younger Holmes had cleared the tea set before leaving the kitchen to go to his old bedroom. Turning on the lights, he had a small smile as he noticed Mrs. Hudson had indeed kept it intact during his absence. The bed was unmade, clothes were still hanging inside the cupboard or crammed inside the chest of drawers, books left everywhere and a pair of discarded socks had remained on the floor. Sherlock rummaged in the chest for a few minutes and took out a pair of silken grey pyjamas, giving an inward praise for the good quality of the garments, and spotted his deep blue bathrobe hanging from a hook behind the door. The detective quickly stripped and donned on the pyjamas, and exited the bedroom while putting on the robe. Did it felt good to put on this casual clothing! It truly gave a comfort of home and, even though Sherlock wouldn't have said it out loud, he had missed it terribly for the past three years, almost as much as he had missed John.

Walking back to the living room, the tall brunette stopped dead on his tracks as he saw his friend had fallen asleep on the couch in a half-seated, half-lying position and with the nape of his head resting on a cushion in an awkward angle. Sherlock clucked between his teeth at the sight: John would wake up with the mother of all stiff neck in the morning, and the leather couch didn't exactly make a warm bed!

Without thinking about it twice, the younger Holmes went back to his bedroom, took a spare blanket out from the cupboard and returned to the living room. He switched off the standard lamp, which light was falling right on the doctor's face, and dropped the blanket on the coffee table, just before piling the cushions at one end of the couch. He slipped his mobile phone in the pocket of his bathrobe and then he sat down, grabbed his friend's sleeping form and made him rest in his lap; the cushions supported John's upper body as he was lying against the detective, using his chest as a pillow. Sherlock extended his wiry arm towards the coffee table, took the blanket and covered John with, making sure the shoulders and neck were protected from the cold.

Anyone walking in the living room would probably be shocked by the sight of two male adults together on a couch, one bundled in a blanket and cradled in the arms of the other man, but the younger Holmes had never given a damn about what people could say or think about him. What was wrong with keeping a friend warm and safe, anyway? Besides, he needed this contact with John; he had yearned for his presence during those terrible years, where he had become the Straw Knight chasing evildoers round the world – but his worst fear had been to receive a text message from Mycroft announcing John's death at the hands of Moriarty's thugs. Sherlock had been worried sick his "suicide" hadn't been public enough, in spite of all his efforts, to erase the last remnants of suspicion in the criminals' minds, making them kidnap and torture his friend for information he didn't possess.

Sherlock clenched his teeth at the thought of John suffering abominations at the hands of low-life scum while he were on the other side of the world hunting down Moriarty's lieutenants. The good doctor, this kind, gentle soul sleeping innocently against his chest, trusting him to keep the nightmares at bay; there should be a law against even thinking of harming John Watson! The younger Holmes tightened his hold on his friend, pressing the golden head on his breast, next to his heart. John snuggled closer to Sherlock and sighed, unconsciously listening to the detective's tranquil beat which lulled him to a peaceful sleep, something which hadn't happened since that fateful day at St. Bart's.

Sherlock knew the shadow looming above him was definitively neutralized. Moran's capture had sounded the death knell of Moriarty's evil empire; no gangster could pretend to be smart enough to proclaim himself the new Napoleon of crime; finally, after three years of chase, it was over. Nothing could prevent the world's only consulting detective to go back on business and provoke a riot with the news of his miraculous return.

And he had regained his heart, too; Sherlock pressed a soft kiss on John's forehead, making the man smile in his sleep. He couldn't have done it without John; a lie and thousands of miles had separated them but deep down, the younger Holmes had known his friend would remain steadfastly loyal to the detective's memory – not only with that final, meaningful statement posted on his blog, but also by his dignity in mourning. Mycroft had constantly texted Sherlock about John refusing to drown his sorrows in drinks, drugs or with a string of mindless girlfriends; in spite of the enormous pressure of police and public inquisitiveness or the more-or-less subtle allusions about the nature of their friendship, the doctor had taken everything in stride and his only answer to wild accusations had been a stony silence. According to Mycroft, John's noble attitude had enraged accusers to the point of making them suffocate on their own poisonous saliva. Hyenas have sniggered until their tongues had dried out but the sun had followed its course through the sky, shining in all its glory above a miry swamp.

"_My heart, my sun,"_ thought Sherlock, gently carding his fingers through the blond strands of hair covering John's head. _"My sun in splendour."_

John may not be aware of it but the mere fact that he was safe from both Moriarty's men and slandering toads had been a great help for Sherlock. It would have killed the detective more efficiently than a bullet in the head if his friend had succumbed to the sirens' call for self-pity and addicted destruction. But then again, he knew his blogger: a born soldier, courageous and resilient, with a chivalrous spirit similar to the one found in medieval tales, John wasn't the one to cower in fear in front of a fire-breathing dragon. No, he had protected himself with a shield – his honesty – and then he had thrown a weapon – his writings – at the beast's chink in its scaled armour – every dragon had a weak spot, right? -, slaying the roaring monster in one swift move.

Moriarty had said once that every fairy tale needed a good villain but in his heinous quest to destroy Sherlock, _"Sir-Boast-a-lot"_, he had forgotten about John, _"Sir-Quiet-Writer"_, the worthy successor of French poet Chrétien de Troyes who had enchanted generations with Arthurian stories. John, in his own silent way, had faithfully kept Sherlock's memory intact, clearing the path for his return, thus thwarting Moriarty's plans (once again) to destroy every last shard of hope for a future for the detective. Moriarty should have known the pen was mightier than the sword!

John mumbled something in his sleep and Sherlock stroked his friend's temple with the side of his thumb, quietly telling him that everything was under control and they were safe. The doctor instantly returned to his dreams and, for hours, silence reigned in 221 B Baker Street, disturbed only by the occasional creaking sound of a piece of furniture from the night's coolness.

John was sleeping.

Sherlock was on watch.

* * *

><p>Dawn came and the first rays of light filtered through the curtains of the living room, bringing the promises of a new day. The younger Holmes had kept his mobile phone in his robe's pocket all night; in case a text would arrive, he didn't want the ring to disturb John's slumber. Around 6:00 a.m., a muffled electronic sound was heard and Sherlock quickly took the electronic device out of his pocket to read the message on the device's screen:<p>

_Will come at 8:00 a.m. MH_

The detective inwardly groaned; Mycroft wanted to visit them, botheration! His big brother probably wanted to explain his role in Sherlock's disappearance, and brag about how efficiently he had protected John for the past three years, without the doctor even realizing it. Couldn't Mycroft just stay in the ministry where he belonged and spy on third world countries, instead of coming boring them to tears? Then again, Sherlock could hardly make short work of his brother; even if Mycroft had babbled about the detective to Moriarty, all this for Queen and country, he had nonetheless respected his word about protecting John after the Reichenbach fall. Oh, well, it would be better to invite him over for a cup of tea and be done with it; otherwise Mycroft would text until the end of the world.

Sherlock typed: _"OK"_ as an answer and sent the text right away. After a few seconds, the mobile ringed again, surprising the younger Holmes: his brother usually never answered so quickly!

But it wasn't Mycroft this time; it was Lestrade:

"_I am standing outside 221 B. May I come in?"_

Sherlock frowned at the thought of having to wake up John to receive the Detective Inspector; but, then again, why should he? Lestrade probably couldn't wait to get his statement about Colonel Moran for his future report, so the capture of this blatant criminal would finally give his career a much-needed boost.

Sherlock typed: _"If you must."_ and sent the message. After a moment, a key was turning quietly in the front door's lock and footsteps were heard in the downstairs' corridor. The detective then remembered he had given Lestrade a spare key of his home years ago, in case he wanted to see him and neither John or Mrs. Hudson would be available to answer the door – Sherlock simply hated doorbells. The footsteps resounded in the staircase and came closer to the flat, just before stopping cold at the living-room's doorstep.

"Sherlock?" asked Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

"Ssh!" was the sharp answer.

A bit taken aback, Lestrade entered the living-room; he certainly didn't expected a warm welcome, not with the goof he had committed three years ago, but he didn't foreseen being ordered to keep quiet. Then his vision adapted to the dim light and he remained agape at the sight of blanket-bundled John curled up against Sherlock, sound asleep.

"Take one photo and you're dead, Lestrade," growled the younger Holmes. He didn't care what it looked like but he knew John was more self-conscious about public opinion – especially after being mocked about his friendship with Sherlock for way too long.

Lestrade raised his hands in a placating gesture, showing he had no intention to take any picture. With a nod of his head, Sherlock indicated him to seat on the chair across the coffee table and the DI complied diligently. Then he rubbed both hands against one another, sighed and started to speak:

"Sherlock, I'd like to..."

"Quiet!" replied the detective.

"But..."

"Don't disturb John!"

Lestrade thought the younger Holmes hadn't changed in three years; his manners hadn't improved a bit and he was as overprotective towards Watson as ever. But the policeman wanted to talk; he had quite a lot to say about the dramatic events culminating with a certain jump out of the roof of a hospital building and he was desperate to say those words, even if Sherlock obviously didn't want to listen.

However, Sherlock had wasted no time "reading" DI Lestrade's life from his clothes and face. The results weren't brilliant: rumpled clothing, meaning he hadn't adapted to live on his own after his divorce; unshaved face, bags under the eyes, bloodshot conjunctiva: Lestrade worked overtime to pay the alimony for his wife and children; no PCs to escort him: his superiors had him on a tight leash and they would kick him out of the force at the slightest _faux-pas_; almost-white hair: Lestrade knew about his superiors' intention towards him and he had been living on the razor's edge, worried sick about losing his job on top of his reputation and his marriage. Sherlock would have still hold a grudge against the DI, who had forfeited years of fruitful cooperation with the younger Holmes after having lent his ear to poisonous Donovan and Anderson, but Lestrade certainly had paid a high price for his mistakes and no doubts he had been kicking himself silly ever since.

A souvenir jumped in Sherlock's mind: the night the crime-fighting duo of 221 B, Baker Street had been arrested, he had seized a gun from a PC, shot a few rounds in the air to submit the crew of police officers before escaping with John, leaving behind a crouching Lestrade with his head between both his hands, in a typical attitude of: _"My God, what have I done?"_

"Sherlock..." started Lestrade.

"What?"

A sigh, and then the white-haired man whispered: "What can I say?"

"It depends on you, Detective Inspector," retorted Sherlock with a steel-like quality in his voice. "If you are here to say stupidities, like accusing me of having kidnapped a millionaire, a football star or even Prince Charles to boost my personal glory, you can show yourself out and never come back again."

"No, it's not that!" protested the policeman, trying to keep his voice low to not irate his interlocutor. "Listen... I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry, so sorry for having listened to Donovan and Anderson! I don't know what possessed me... I damn well knew they hated your guts and would have done anything to bring you down, and yet when they presented me the so-called "proofs" of your culpability, it sounded so true... I got afraid, I thought for sure you had been playing me for years; the only thing I could think of was saving my own skin by reporting the "proofs" to my superior. How could I have been so blind? I saw you a hundred times making your deductions on crime scenes, relying only on your pocket magnifying glass and your brains to find clues, but I had to go and listen to Donovan and Anderson's suspicions. I fell for it hook, line and sinker – gosh, I'd probably have swallowed the fisherman as well. Everything went downhill afterwards: your escape with John, the hunt throughout London... But when I got this phone call saying you had committed suicide, it felt like the world had crashed down on my head. I was convinced it had been entirely my fault; that you had jumped out of desperation to ever prove your innocence; and I was disgusted with myself for having being so stupid."

Lestrade rubbed his tired eyes with the back of his hand to chase away an unwanted mist gathering beneath his eyelids. Sherlock remained impassive, looking unblinkingly at the DI.

"And then I had to identify your body at St. Bart's morgue... You probably don't remember it, you were as white as the sheet covering you at the time, but I was devastated. Your brother showed up and told me to leave; judging by his tone and the creepy-looking persons accompanying him, I knew better than to argue. And afterwards, there has been the shit-storm thundering through Scotland Yard... I still don't know why I have been granted the chance to keep my job, Donovan and Anderson hadn't been so lucky – and their latest sexual exploit in the open sure won't plead in their defence. My wife divorced me, stating our kids were bullied at school because their father was an incapable, stupid enough to not believe in Sherlock Holmes! I had to leave my home, my children, and live in a miserable flat with only the souvenirs of my actions to keep me company."

Lestrade glanced at John, who had moved slightly in his sleep, making the blanket shift from his shoulders. Sherlock readjusted the woollen cover without a word.

"I called John a thousand times; I wanted to explain, to apologize but he never answered," added Lestrade in a sad voice. "I can't blame him, though; I've betrayed you and I'll understand if you'll never forgive me. All I can say is... I'm truly sorry."

Lestrade sighed, got up on his feet and turned to leave, but Sherlock's voice stopped him:

"Frankly, Lestrade, you still haven't grown some extra brain cells during my absence, have you?"

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock glared at the DI, silently telling him to keep his voice down, and then he said:

"John hadn't answered your calls to _protect_ you: he avoided contact simply because he didn't trust himself enough to not punch your nose, like he did to your former Chief Superintendant, and yet somewhere he still likes you; besides, he knows you're been nothing but a fool in this whole Bruht kidnapping business and John isn't the kind to hold grudges against small-brained people. My brother Mycroft pulled some strings so you'd keep your job in spite of the scandal, to _protect_ you: he knew losing your income would be the proverbial straw breaking the camel's back; you would have been utterly destroyed, and your kids' future would have been compromised before it could even start. And now, I'm giving you the entire credit of the arrest of Colonel Moran, murderer of the Honourable Ronald Adair and countless other ones – including Mrs. Stewart, a wealthy woman who had been killed for some time now –, also to _protect_ you: your superiors will have a hard time sacking you after the brilliant conclusion of such a high-profile case, thus letting you remain at Scotland Yard until you'll retire with a healthy pension."

Lestrade was making a remarkable imitation of a fish with his rounded eyes and his opening and closing mouth, but Sherlock kept on talking:

"You are too much an idiot for us to bear a grudge against you, Lestrade. I'm sorry about your divorce and I can't do much about it, John would tell you I'm no good in the sentiment field but at least the Holmes brothers could salvage your career and your future. Now, after the capture of Moran, maybe your wife will come back to you, who knows? Anyway, I can only hope this little incident had finally opened your eyes and you will let me do my little deductions in peace, without having to deal with would-be Donovans and Andersons every time John and I will show up at Scotland Yard. Free access to crime scenes and no time-wasting sarcasms, do you hear?"

"You... You still want to help me with cases?" asked the stupefied DI.

"Of course! London has become a mess and I can't sit here all day along, waiting for a message to show up on my website, can I? You Bow Street runners look like you could use some intelligence for solving murder cases! Besides, it would avoid your superiors to look like fools in front of the TV cameras, another good point on your file. Now, John needs his sleep and you have a report to write; please leave and call me only if there's interesting cases around, okay?"

TBC...


	10. Big Brother is watching you

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- To LienaGrace: Hi! I am glad you liked the fact John kept himself on the straight and narrow after Sherlock's "death". I've always thought he's too decent and honest to drown his sorrows in foolishness!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10: Big brother is watching you<strong>

After an overly-grateful, thanks-stammering and all-around annoying Gregory Lestrade had left the flat, his mind reeling by the fact he had been forgiven and his career was back on tracks thanks to the detective and the doctor living on 221 B Baker Street, Sherlock let out a heavy sigh: the DI didn't seem to know when to leave; he would stay around until the last dog was hung! The younger Holmes remembered the time he played possum at St. Bart's morgue, lying on a cold metallic slab while the pain from his injuries was getting intolerable; but Lestrade, summoned to identify his body, had made such a scene, crying and yelling all over the hospital that this tragedy had been entirely his fault, Sherlock had thought for a brief, panicking moment he wouldn't be able to fake death any longer and take a sharp intake of breath, revealing his deception to the policeman and thus ruining the plan for keeping John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade safe from Moriarty's hit men.

Fortunately, Mycroft had shown up in the nick of time, kicking the DI out with a few brief, but chosen, words; right after the morgue's door had slammed on the desolated Lestrade's face, Sherlock had moaned from his injuries and Mycroft had covered his sibling's mouth with the palm of his hand while the doctor was getting ready a syringe filled with pain-killers. Sherlock had lost consciousness right after the injection, leaving the rest of the matter to his brother's capable hands. He had woken up two days later at the Holmes' family house, guarded by Secret Services' creatures while Mycroft was on the phone, choosing a casket from the most expensive undertaker of London.

"_Trust Mycroft to keep a certain amount of _decorum_, even during a deception,"_ thought Sherlock.

But thinking about his brother made the detective remember the text received at dawn; Mycroft said he would come at 8:00 but Sherlock knew he wouldn't resist coming about fifteen minutes earlier, a more-or-less subtle way to disconcert his audience. Sherlock was accustomed to this behaviour and, if it hadn't been for John, he wouldn't have moved an inch from the couch. But John was still sleeping in his lap and whereas Lestrade had been efficiently silenced about this little fact, the younger Holmes doubted his brother would hold his tongue. The detective didn't care about Mycroft's opinion or orders – he had even walked through Buckingham Palace in his birthday suit, with only a bed sheet wrapped around his body, just to express his dissatisfaction about being summoned by Mycroft off the cuff, but this action had only involved him. John was more concerned by public opinion and Sherlock didn't want their renewed friendship to be compromised by embarrassing the doctor in front of his brother.

Very gently, Sherlock released John from his hold and made him lie down on the couch, his head resting on the pile of cushions. John groaned lightly, probably from being deprived of his comfortable, warm human mattress but he kept on sleeping, making the younger Holmes realize how tired his friend must be after three years of mourning/working non-stop/defending his memory. After brushing away a strand of blonde hair falling on John's eyes, Sherlock stood up and walked towards the bathroom.

After a shower, a shave and a change of clothes, the detective went downstairs to Speedy's, the coffee and sandwich shop next door; he bought pastries (mostly for John, unless Mycroft was skipping his diet again), a large cup of black coffee for him and a medium cup of tea for the doctor; while the waitress (a new girl, who apparently had no idea about the identity of her customer) was struggling to type the bill on the cash register, Sherlock discreetly picked up packets of sugar and dropped them negligently inside the brown bag holding his buys (Mycroft always over-sweetened his tea). After the waitress had managed to get the bill printed, the brunette dropped a few banknotes on the counter and left without waiting for his change.

* * *

><p>Back at 221 B, Sherlock wasted no time cleaning up the tea set previously used, which had been lying around on the coffee table, and put the kettle to boil. Five minutes later, tea was ready and the detective was seated in his favourite armchair, his long fingers pressed together under his chin and his keen eyes locked on his still-slumbering friend. At precisely 7:45 a.m., the characteristic sounds of a Rolls-Royce motor was heard through Baker Street to stop at their building. A slam of a metallic door, followed by another one from the entrance door, and heavy footsteps were heard in the staircase with the usual grunting of Mycroft Holmes, who simply detested any form of exercise.<p>

The tall, well-dressed man with his eternal umbrella twirling in his hand looked around the living room and raised one eyebrow at the sight of John Watson lying on the green leather couch, oblivious of his arrival; Mycroft opened his mouth to ask a question but a sharp nod of Sherlock's head cut him short. Shrugging, the elder Holmes contented himself with sitting down on the armchair opposite to his brother's; he made a movement to pull the Union Jack cushion from out of his back but here again, a frown from his relative made him stop. This cushion was John's and Sherlock would be damned before anyone would even try to discard it.

After five long minutes of silence, Mycroft finally asked: "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Aren't you going to offer me tea?"

"Help yourself," was the curt answer.

The unofficial British government rolled his eyes heavenwards; if three years of exile hadn't changed his sibling, then nothing truly would! He relinquished his grasp on his beloved umbrella and started pouring tea in the cups.

"I'll be mother, as usual,"

"Oh, brother!" groaned Sherlock.

"You shouldn't have brought pasties; I'm still on a diet."

"These are not for you, but for John. Besides, you have restarted your dieting program only a few weeks ago, not enough to erase the pounds you have cumulated during my absence so easing up on the sweet treats can't hurt."

"Yes, well, thinking about you being abroad had made me hit the scones pretty hard," said Mycroft with a disdainful smirk. "You know I worry constantly about you."

"You certainly weren't when babbling away my life's story to a notorious psychopath."

Mycroft stifled a sigh in his teacup, but refused to raise the bait; instead, he emptied five packets of sugar in his tea. After their triumphal dismantlement of Moriarty's crime web, the Holmes brothers didn't need an argument about painful past mistakes so it was better – and urgent – to change the subject.

"You must be happy, though. Catching Sebastian Moran on the act has put the final nail in Moriarty's coffin. I presume you have given all the merit of his capture to that incompetent Lestrade?" asked Mycroft while sipping delicately at his tea.

"He's not as useless as you think he is," retorted Sherlock. "Re-boosting his career is a sure way to provide me with work; Lestrade will contact me as soon as a case is too complicated for him to solve – God knows, it will happen often – and I'll be able to make my deductions without having to endure the usual bore from Scotland Yard."

"Well, it was a smart move. A grateful DI in your back pocket is always better than a resentful one in front of you. And I suppose Mrs. Hudson will be deliriously happy about renting you this flat again but what about John?"

The detective raised his steel-like eyes towards his brother with the speed of a striking cobra.

"What about him?"

"Are you planning to ask him to move back here, and to participate in your murder inquiries?"

"Of course, I do. He's my friend, in case you've forgotten."

"Perish the thought! It is just that you may have to consider he may want to move on with his life. You have been absent for long, he may have lost the thrill of the chase, the taste for action..."

"Rubbish! I damn well know that your goons, the ones who had given us a hand at Camden House last night, have already told you John has remained by my side the whole time we have been lying in wait for Moran. John never hesitated, not for a second, to follow me in a very dangerous operation even though we had been reunited only for a few hours. And now you're telling me he might stop our partnership in the drop of a hat? Where does this nonsense comes from?"

Mycroft remained silent, drinking his tea while perfectly knowing his little brother was "reading" his clothes, face and general attitude, just like he had done it a few minutes ago on Sherlock. After a short while, the younger Holmes chuckled lightly:

"Oh, so it is this _"Caring is a disadvantage"_ talk again? I thought I had been clear the last time we've discussed this, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, you have to consider it is a valuable point. Caring about an ex-soldier, a landlady and a cop has indeed put you in grave danger, and all this just for the fun to solve trivial problems while your talents could be put to a much better use, in a place where you would be living in the most absolute security. Why won't you work for me, for God's sakes?"

"Because I don't like backstabbers, Mycroft, and the role you've played in the Moriarty case has brilliantly illustrated this point. It would never cross John's mind to betray my secrets to enemies, not even to save his life; Mrs. Hudson had endured mistreatments from your CIA buddies rather than giving them Adler's phone; and Lestrade may be a fool but he's an honest one – which is more than I can say about some Bow Street runners I happen to know. But for Queen and country you betrayed me, giving a criminal mastermind all the needed tools to destroy my reputation. You live in a quicksand world, Mycroft, where people are used, manipulated and then sacrificed without another thought. You call it _"the greater good"_, but the greater good towards whom? And you think I'd give up my job for this? Well, I'm not interested! I prefer to have my enemies in front of me, not behind."

"Sherlock..."

"Don't try to frighten me, Mycroft. It won't work. I thank you for having watched over John during my absence but it doesn't mean I am indebted to you. Quite the contrary, you're the one who owes me a lifetime of obligations since it was your morbid quest for information which has led you to sign a pact with the Devil in the first place, before unleashing him. You could have warned me, like in King Philip Augustus of France's note to John Landless about the release of King Richard Lionheart: _"Look to yourself as the Devil is loosed"_. But no, you sat and waited for days until you had no other choice but to summon John to your silly Diogenes' Club and humiliate him before confessing your misdeeds."

"Why are so protective of him?" growled Mycroft, slamming his cup down on the saucer. "You've never expressed the need for a friend before, so what's it to you?"

"None of your business."

"I never thought I'd see the day where you would be so attached to a man you would spend hours cradling him while he slept!"

"Who says I did?"

"You showered and changed your clothes to hide it but your arms are still a bit stiff from holding him, aren't they? Besides, he's sleeping peacefully and that's odd, considering he has been having nightmares since your suicide – I have all the CCTV evidence to prove it – and the only time the war dreams have relented had been when he was your flatmate. You have somehow a soothing presence on him, Sherlock, which makes me wonder about the good doctor's mental health. Perhaps his mind has been broken in the battlefields much more than his therapist thinks..."

"Shut your yap-trap!"

"Oh, Sherlock! Language!"

"Keep your voice down! You'll wake John!"

"Sherlock?" asked a sleepy voice at the other end of the room.

The Holmes brothers turned their heads towards the couch and, indeed, John had awakened. His hair was mussed and he was looking blearily at his surroundings, but realization lightened his dark blue eyes in a flash as he recognized their visitor sitting near the fireplace: it was a face he hadn't seen in three years and he sure hadn't missed it one bit.

"Mycroft? What the Hell are you doing here?"

"Hello to you too, Doctor Watson," answered the elder Holmes in an icy tone.

"Can the attitude, Mycroft! Sherlock has told me all about the role you've played with Moriarty so give me a reason why I shouldn't punch your lights out!" roared John, jumping on his feet, his fists clenched for an upcoming fight.

"Peace, John," said Sherlock, raising his hand. "My brother has already done his _mea culpa_ through and through; let's just hope he has earned a lesson and he will be a bit more cooperative in the future in our investigations."

"Why, yes," answered Mycroft with a smug half-smile on his face. "After all, you wouldn't go very far in solving your trivia without me having your back, would you?"

"Excuse me?" asked the detective, his features hardening ever so slightly.

"Oh come on, Sherlock! I've lost count of all the times I've pulled you out of trouble – the both of you, for that matter. Who did you think pulled a few strings so Doctor Watson won't be accused of vandalism in the Black Lotus business, or how I granted access for you to visit the Baskerville military site without pretending to be me?"

"And you seem to forget that John and I have solved a few things for you... Like retrieving the Bruce-Partington plans or straightening the matter of that foolish "female young person" of royal blood who has so stupidly compromised herself with the Adler woman."

The doctor let out an exasperated sigh: "Are you both through?"

"You're right, John," said Sherlock with his usual half-smile. "If you don't feel murderous towards my brother any more, please be seated and enjoy a good breakfast with us."

"No, no, I'll leave you to your mastication," said Mycroft smugly. "I have to go to the office for an important meeting about... well, never mind that. John, I hope you'll be in a better state of mind at our next meeting. It was nice to see you in the flesh, though; watching your image on TV screens was getting bothersome. Sherlock, I daresay I will contact you again if the need arises, like it or not; in the meantime, think about what I've said earlier."

The unofficial British government delicately dabbed his lips with a napkin to clear away the last remnants of tea. Then he stood up, grabbed at his umbrella and nodded in the general direction of John while Sherlock remained statue-like. The doctor answered with a furious glare, but unclenched his fists. Only after the front door banged after the elder Holmes did John heavily sat down on the recently-vacated armchair.

"The nerve of your brother is amazing," grumbled the doctor as he combed his hair with his fingers, messing it more than ever before.

"It runs in the family. Would you like some tea? The pastries are for you, by the way."

"You've bought breakfast? Oh, thanks."

"Bah, I know my John!" said Sherlock while pouring tea in a clean cup. "You're always famished in the morning. By the way, are you aware that Mycroft is a bit jealous of you?"

John's ocean eyes widened to the point they looked ready to pop out of their sockets.

"Excuse me?"

"Mycroft can't eat a cake without gaining a few pounds, while you can devour the contents of a fridge and remain lean! My brother has always been very concerned about his weight; in fact, a few years ago he was borderline obese, thanks to his apathetic nature. But you can't pretend to lead a country if you are incapable to get out of a chair on your own, can you? So Mycroft started a regime with more or less success and it had rubbed off on his character. He was a bothersome idiot before, but as a dieting idiot he's unbearable!"

"God helps us," whispered John between two mouthfuls of sultana scones. He munched in silence for a few minutes and then he raised his eyes towards his friend... and frowned. Sherlock seemed troubled by something and it usually never bode well.

"What's wrong?"

"I was wondering... Look, John, I know it may be a bit early for me to ask, but... I mean, I'd like to ask you a question but you are not forced to answer me right away... You can take all the needed time to make up your mind, and..."

"Please, what is it?"

John was puzzled: the brunette was usually more straightforward when he wanted to ask him for something and an unsure Sherlock was a scary sight.

"John, I know I've been away for a long time and I would understand if you refused, but... Well, would you like to be my flatmate again?"

The detective was inwardly quaking in his shoes out of fear: what if Mycroft were right? What if John had found a woman during his absence, and was already planning boring things like getting married and settling down? What if... _Sherlock had come back too late?_

"Of course I would, you tall drink of water!" said a beaming John.

Sherlock felt as if a ton of lead had been lifted off his shoulders.

TBC...


	11. Movin' on, moving out

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- To LienaGrace: nothing escapes Mycroft's human and electronic eyes, does it? ;-)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11: Movin' on, moving out<strong>

The two men wasted no time after John's heartfelt acceptance to move back in 221 B Baker Street again; the doctor finished his pastries and tea in record time while Sherlock was on the phone, asking for a taxi to come and pick them up _immediately_ if the drivers valued their licence. After having dumped the tea set in the sink for a hopeful wash, John barely had the time to grab his jacket before Sherlock seized him by the hand and made a mad dash down the stairs, risking his friend's health in the process since a certain leg was still subjected to psychosomatic limps from time to time.

Fortunately, no accidents happened and they got out of the building and started crossing the street at the exact time when a black TX4 Hackney Carriage (also known as a London cab) stopped in front of them in a loud screeching of tires. But, as it was still the early hours of the morning, no annoying passerby was here to witness this narrowly-avoided accident. Sherlock flung open the car's door, pushed John on the back seat and ordered the driver to _"step on it"_, regardless of the poor man's attempts to scold them for being so careless. John quietly gave the driver his soon-to-be former address and his calm demeanour made a good job in defusing the man's indignation; in less than a minute, the black cab had left Baker Street to head in the direction of the north.

"Why are you in such a hurry, Sherlock?" asked John. "My things are not going to fly out of the window of my flat at a moment's notice, you know."

"I am quite aware of that. It is just that I want to fetch your stuff and go back to 221 B before those pestering journalists will arrive and camp on the sidewalk. We will have a harder time carrying heavy boxes and bags while clearing a path through their stupidity at the same time."

"Well," said the blond man with a smile, "I guess we can't really blame them for wanting to immortalize the return in London of the world's only consulting detective."

"Are you joking? The journalists will make a fuss about my miraculous reappearance, true, but it will last for about one hour and a half; then, they will start make veiled accusations about my "demise" being another fraud and, given my reputation, it won't last long before they'd shout from the rooftops that all this had been just a lure to escape the police and I've spent the last three years vacationing in the Bahamas. You would have known all this since the beginning, of course, and Mrs. Hudson had probably been paid off to keep quiet about this..."

"That's horrible! Journalists just can't print lies and slander other people, regardless of consequences for the innocent!"

"John, you are talking like a man who hadn't had his nose dug into newspapers for, say, three years?" asked Sherlock with his usual ironic half-smile on his lips. "You are obviously out of shape concerning those disreputable individuals who would stop for nothing to have their articles printed on the front page of a gossip rag. For your information – no pun intended – journalists haven't taken any deontology classes during my absence and besides, they all have this pathological hate of being proven wrong. I'm still a fraud for them, thanks to Moriarty's evil genius – even if I've been cleared of all charges for the Bruht kidnapping, it hadn't erased the other accusations like me being a faker, a show-off and a liar."

"But can't you organize a press conference or something, so you could explain what had really happened?"

"And throw myself to the vultures? No, thank you."

"But you've just succeeded in capturing Sebastian Moran, notorious criminal and Moriarty's most trusted man!"

"I gave all the benefit of his capture to Lestrade, remember?"

"So, how are you...?"

Sherlock gently rested his hand on John's arm, efficiently cutting short his friend's bombardment of questions.

"Please, drop the matter for the time being. I have come up with a little something that will settle the accounts right but I cannot give you more details for the moment. For now, let's just concentrate on packing your things before the journalists move for the kill, right?"

John opened his mouth to protest, to say they should waste no time, spare no expenses in defending his friend's reputation but a firm glance from Sherlock made his contestations die before they would ever form on his lips. After a moment of silence, the doctor whispered under his breath:

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock nodded affirmatively.

"The Shadow People?"

Another nod answered him. John understood the Holmes brothers had arranged something in the goal of restoring Sherlock's image and, knowing the detective, it would certainly be a brilliant demonstration of irrefutable logic, a firework of deductions that would leave all the mediocre – may they be cops, journalists, magistrates, the public or any other kinds of incredulous – biting the dust, thoroughly humiliated for not having believed in Sherlock Holmes and John sombrely thought it wouldn't be a bad thing if Kitty Riley would be amongst the vanquished.

Sherlock lightly tapped his friend's arm and relaxed against the seat's cushions. The cab driver, who had observed them through the rear-view mirror, shook his head in consternation: he had transported some odd couples in his life, but this one was definitively the weirder!

* * *

><p>The taxi finally reached John's apartment building and, after having paid the driver who seemed very anxious to leave, the detective and the doctor entered the grim-looking structure. Sherlock had a hard time repressing a grimace at the sight of the dirty corridor walls, the barely-functioning elevators, the occasional painted tag praising a gang or a rock star. Sounds of crying babies could be heard; the floor was sticky and littered with cigarette butts as if cleaning had been a distant souvenir; and the elevator's strongly smelled of urine, a testimony someone had spent the night before drinking cheap beer.<p>

"Sorry you have to see that, Sherlock," said John with a sigh, focusing his attention on the luminous numbers flashing above their heads in a desperate hope the elevator would move faster.

"Actually, this whole building could prove to be a mine of information about its tenants; why, for example, I can deduce a teenaged couple had sex here about two nights ago and they switched on the emergency button to avoid being disturbed while copulating; a drunk had used it to relieve himself as you already know, and a middle-aged man had his face slapped by a woman wearing fake nails – the violence of the impact has tore off the index nail of her right hand, and its trajectory ended in the far corner of the cabin. But, since we have no intention to stay in this building for very long, keeping this data would soon prove to be useless, wouldn't it?"

"You are quite right, my dear Sherlock; just erase it from your hard-drive brains," said the doctor, genuinely happy at the thought he would leave this building forever to sleep in his large, sun-filled bedroom at 221 B Baker Street again. His flatmate was the king of eccentrics and some strange ingredients could be found from time to time in the fridge, but compared to this dump it sounded like paradise!

The elevator stopped a bit too abruptly at the fourth floor; then, the doors opened with a squeaking sound and John led the way until they reached a door painted in dark red and marked with the number 10. The doctor dug out his keys from his jacket's pocket and quickly unlocked the door, switching on the lights as he went in.

Sherlock quickly found himself standing in a minuscule living-room as John wordlessly headed to his bedroom. The detective inspected the premises and what he observed made him frown: this flat was as lousy as his friend's former one, just before they met in St. Bart's laboratory. Walls painted in a sickly yellowish colour; threadbare rug on the floor; second-hand furniture; a depressing desk supporting the laptop computer; small cathode-ray tube TV; a kitchenette in a corner, barely functional with a mini-fridge, a sink and a set of hotplates. Only John's meticulous nature had avoided this place to become too depressing by keeping it clean from top to bottom (including the windows) and putting up decorations like framed photos, a calendar and even a potted plant on the kitchen's counter, but the flat still emanated sadness and loneliness – two words that would perfectly describe Doctor John Watson's life for the past three years.

Sherlock looked at the framed photos hanging on the walls: a black-and-white one showing a smiling bride and groom on their wedding day – Mr. and Mrs. Watson, judging by the strong physical resemblance between the man and John, but his friend had also inherited his mother's smile and shorter stature. Another photo of the couple, this time in colour, was showing the proud parents with a sulking little girl and a chubby, happy baby boy. A picture of young Harriet and John with presents in front of a Christmas tree; Harriet holding her chartered accountant's degree with troubled eyes and a superior smirk on her face; John graduating from medical school with his beaming parents flanking him, while Harriet was deliberately avoiding to look at the camera. A photo showing Captain John Watson surrounded by a crowd of army buddies, visibly toasting in celebration, and then...

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat as he looked at the last framed picture: it was a photo of him and John, seated at a table at Angelo's restaurant. Sherlock remembered the occasion perfectly; it had been John's birthday and the detective had suggested a dinner at their favourite restaurant. Just before dessert, Sherlock had handed out his present – a very nice fountain pen, _"in case you'd get tired typing our adventures on your keyboard, my dear blogger."_ John had been deeply moved by the gift and busybody Angelo had seized the occasion to immortalize the moment with a click of his numeric camera. Sherlock had frowned a bit, not liking this interference during a special moment shared with _his_ John but his friend had merely laughed before thanking Angelo. The detective hadn't been aware the restaurateur had e-mailed the photo afterwards, though.

"I still have it, you know," said John's voice at Sherlock's elbow.

"Excuse me?"

"The fountain pen, I keep it on me all the time. I even engraved my initials on the cartridge container, in case someone would think it funny to steal from me."

"Oh!" exclaimed Sherlock, inwardly scolding himself for not having had the pen engraved by a professional before giving it to John. Then again, he hadn't imagined he would be framed by a criminal mastermind just a few weeks after John's birthday.

"Please, could you take down the photographs? I'd like to take them today. I've packed most of my stuff but the heavy things like books, household appliances and winter clothes will need a second trip."

"I could ask Brother Dear to send a few of his goons and do the packing..."

John made a small grimace: "Frankly, I'm not comfortable about having some of the Shadow People here to rummage through my things, Sherlock. It's personal..."

Sherlock was about to reply the said shadowy persons had been spying on the doctor since he had agreed to become his flatmate so they probably knew everything about him, from the brand of condoms he preferred to the number of holes one of his socks sported, but something in the back of his head told him it would be _"no good"_, to quote John, so he cleared his throat and said instead:

"I see your point. Well, how about a professional mover? I happen to have helped one years ago – a very small matter, he was accused of stealing goods from his clients while actually it had been his business associate helping himself – but he has been eternally grateful towards me ever since. Maybe it is time to call in a favour? He would be happy to oblige, even after all these years."

"Are you sure?"

"Why, yes and he runs a very good team: efficient, careful and reliable, who can ask for anything more?"

John thought about it for a while, and then he agreed: "Well, okay. After all, packing the rest of my stuff won't take too much of their time. I'll finish with the suitcase, and then the smaller things can fit in my old army bag. Can you take care of the photos and the laptop, as well?"

Sherlock complied and the two men worked in silence for a few minutes. The small, personal stuff was tucked in the army bag while the laptop was neatly packed in a specially-designed nylon case. But while helping John, the detective's mental clogs were turning in full force and the deductions he was making didn't suit him at-all. His friend had obviously been living from hand to month despite having a good job at St. Bart's cardiac care department and being a newly-successful writer: this dissymmetry called for a little straightening of situation, since Mycroft hadn't been too loquacious about John's financial situation during Sherlock's exile.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"How is your sister fairing at rehab?"

A long-suffering sigh followed Sherlock's question, and then the doctor came out of his bedroom and leaned against the doorframe with a resigned look on his face.

"How did you know?"

"My dear fellow, you should be accustomed to my methods by now, but I'll indulge you nevertheless; the framed pictures you are found off show the most important persons of your life: your parents, your friends from the army, your sister and me, which I find highly flattering. However, it doesn't take a genius to see that Harriet's resentment towards you goes back from the very beginning and yet, you kept her picture so, conclusion: you still care for her, in spite of being estranged. The photo showing Harry graduating also reveals she had taken to drinking during her student days – and there's no recent pictures of her, meaning she is still taken with the bottle and refused to be photographed. You have a steady job and you have managed to publish a book, so money shouldn't be an issue and yet, you live in conditions unworthy of your status. Hence, you have faced monetary problems – not your own, but somebody else's, probably a relative. Since both your parents are dead, the only person remaining is Harry. Now, I happen to know it is hard to concentrate on figures and accounts while drunk as a skunk, so logic calls for thinking Harry's overindulgence in alcohol had cost her dearly – and you stepped up to pay for her debts, to avoid her prison. And finally, knowing you and your good heart, it is transparent you wanted to give her a chance by sending her to a rehab center, in the hopes she will clean her act and start behaving like an adult. The recent money you've earned with the book covered the expenses, leaving none for you so your dreams of moving to a nicer flat or to develop your professional future had been put on hold. Am I right?"

John rubbed his face with the back of his hand. He had forgotten how the perceptivity of Sherlock could be tedious, at times.

"You're right. After your demise, I moved out of 221 B and stayed here to lay low for a while, hiding from the journalists. Mike Stamford found me this job at St. Bart's because he felt partly responsible for my problems – after all, he's the one who had introduced us at the laboratory – but it had been hard; a lot of colleagues looked at me rather suspiciously since I was the _"fraud's friend"_, I announced it loud and clear on the Internet so there'd be a good chance I'd be dishonest as well. For months I lived under their scrutiny and I feared the littlest _faux pas_ would cost my job, so I stayed at this flat because I didn't dare spending more money on rent. I saved cash on everything: nights out with Stamford, kitchen appliances, entertainment; I also avoided women because for all I knew, they could be Mycroft's creatures or Kitty Riley's-wannabes faking a romantic interest in me to extort confessions about you. I don't doubt some hacks have written about _"the confirmed bachelor John Watson"_ mourning his dead boyfriend, thus "proving" we were a gay couple, but I didn't give a damn!"

John seated heavily on a chair; this trip down memory lane wasn't easy on him but he carried on telling the events that had plagued his life recently:

"And then, about eighteen months ago, Harry called me. She was in a terrible mess: she had made enormous mistakes in the accounts of a big software company and they were suing her for all her worth. I hired an attorney and, after long negotiations, the company agreed to not drag her into court provided the missing sums would be paid – bad publicity wouldn't have been good for business but Harry lost all her remaining clients. I paid her debts and then, as soon as it was over, she drowned in alcohol once again. The bank seized her assets for non-payment of her mortgage so she was ruined, penniless and destroying her health. I couldn't do anything for her as a doctor; she steadfastly refused to listen to me and thus, the only option left was to send her to rehab. I've spent the rest of my money paying the bills of a specialized clinic frequented by movie stars, writers, rock musicians and the likes, hoping their highly-regarded status would prompt her to re-think her life."

Sherlock gently put his hand on John's shoulder: "And… is it working?"

As an answer, John took out his mobile phone and typed on a few keys before turning on the loudspeaker. The disincarnated voice of Harriet "Harry" Watson resounded through the small living-room like an enraged ghost:

"_John, it's Harry. What the Hell have you been doing? You were supposed to send me money days ago! How am I supposed to buy my cigarettes and magazines without cash, do you expect me to pay in kind? You could be more thoughtful, you know! This clinic bores me to tears, there's nothing left to do but smoking and reading since I am stuck here thanks to you, so the least you could do is make my circumstances more acceptable. But I suppose daydreaming about that fake detective is more important than your sister! I have to go now, there's another dull meeting I'm supposed to attend but once I'm out of here, you'd better have left a message telling cash is on its way, otherwise I'll go over the wall and hitchhike my way back to London and make a scandal at your hospital, do you hear? And it's not an idle threat! Bye!"_

John turned off the phone with a resigned sigh while Sherlock was barely able to contain his anger, his handsome face set like flint. The nerve of that selfish, inconsiderate woman! Her brother was nearly broke from her inebriated shenanigans and yet she had the nerve to complain about her stay in a pricey clinic! Sherlock had some previous experience with rehab and he knew some underfunded centers in London where the hopes of cleaning one's act were very slim, not to say non-existent; Harry were in the best hands to get another chance in life but she stubbornly clung to her whiney act, heaping insults on John while extorting money and making a complete fool of herself. No doubts she would relapse as soon as her stay at the clinic would be over, and the vicious circle would start again: drink, fall sick, clinic and drink again, regardless of John's feelings towards his sister.

"I received this message shortly before leaving for Camden House. I had planned to send her money after my visit to your hiding place, but… Well, I have been a bit distracted on the way," said the doctor with a smile towards the brunette. "But it's okay: cell phones are not allowed in the clinic and calls from the public phone can be done only from 3:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. It is only 7:15; I still have plenty of time to send her money via the Internet. Harry will probably rant and rave for me being late, but I'll just have to tell her about your return and hopefully, she'll understand. Oh, please remind me to call St. Bart's once we're back at 221 B, okay? I'm taking the day off, there's no way I'll leave you alone today to face the press and the police about your return."

John went back to his bedroom and resumed his packing. Sherlock stayed rooted on the spot for a minute, his brains processing the data he had just received about his friend's finances, his professional future and Harry's self-obsessed attitude. Then, a knowing smile lightened his features as the perfect solution came to the detective's mind. He couldn't utter it out loud, since it was a delicate matter involving John but with a few planned, subtle moves made over a long length of time, Sherlock would soon see his friend realize a lifelong dream.

"John?"

"Yes?" answered the blond-haired man as he kept on packing.

"Do you like your job at St. Bart's?"

"It's okay, I guess. After your "suicide", I honestly thought I wouldn't be able to practice medicine again so Mike's proposal had been a godsend; otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to afford living in London. The pay is good, and I enjoy treating patients. Why do you ask?"

Sherlock didn't say he knew – from Mycroft – that a few doctors at St. Bart's were resenting John's presence amongst them, not because of his links with the world's only consulting detective but for the exceptional kindness he showed to the patients. A lot of them had loudly praised Dr. Watson's professional qualities and it was irritating the Hell of lazy, unconcerned staff physicians more focused on golf scores or weekends than by treating people with a heart condition.

"Oh, I was just remembering you mentioning once you considered private practice... You know, share a surgery, have your own patients and organize your time like you want to..."

John stopped folding a shirt as an image formed inside his mind: a golden brass plate fixed on a building's stone wall, reading "_Dr. J. H. Watson, general practitioner"_. Receiving patients in the calm of a surgery, listening to their problems while a receptionist would take calls and note the appointments in an agenda, instead of having to rush through the overcrowded corridors of a hospital, bumping into sick persons and medical staff alike and having to deal with suspicious colleagues... John couldn't deny this idea had been appealing these past few years. He hadn't minded working in hectic conditions during his Army days but time had flown by and he longed for a bit of peace and quiet at work...

The doctor shook his head. Dreaming about his own surgery was a waste of time; he wasn't wealthy and the prices for private practice in London were simply out of his reach. The sales of his book had allowed him to reconsider this project for a little while but then Harry had burst into his life with her problems, her debts and her failing health. John had gladly helped his sister, regardless of his own dreams but he had received very little in return, apart from a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Yes, it would be nice, Sherlock. But this is London and buying a surgery is not in my means. If you and I will work on cases again, provided Lestrade will keep his word, then maybe I'll earn enough by writing more books about your deductions, who knows?"

John closed his suitcase's lid, unaware his friend was watching him with a mysterious half-smile on his lips. The good doctor genuinely thought the Holmes family was reduced to Mycroft, Mummy and Sherlock but, actually, there were a lot of first and second cousins scattered throughout England. One of Mummy's second cousins twice removed, Anthony Vernet, was a medical doctor in London and considering retirement since his arthritis had been growing steadily worse. He would probably look for a successor, and a certain younger doctor would be the perfect candidate...

Provided Sherlock would have a preliminary talk with his long-lost relative, of course!

TBC...


	12. Fairy godmother

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- To LienaGrace: Hi! Yes, I wanted Mike Stamford to play a part in the 'taking-care-of-John' plan during Sherlock's absence, he's a good fellow! I hope you'll like this new chapter as it has a Sherlock versus Harriet confrontation.

- "_Du balai!"_ is a French idiom literally meaning "At the broom", employed to tell someone to go away. It is inspired by the fact women used brooms for centuries to push dust or domestic animals out of the house.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11: Fairy godmother<strong>

The trip back home was uneventful, even though the taxi driver tried to charge Sherlock and John an extra fee for the luggage and the younger Holmes flatly refused, stating he wouldn't pay for the driver's negligence since _"It's obvious this vehicle hasn't been maintained on a regular basis judging from the two worn tires, the crack on the right lower part of the windshield and the left front door with the damaged lock, meaning its owner has been using his fare money to bet on horses and he has lost quite a packet, too. It doesn't bore too well for the MOT test scheduled for next week and don't bother denying it, driver, you left the letter on the passenger's seat, next to the racecourse program. So kindly take us at 221 B Baker Street, otherwise I'll tell your employer about you using your taxi for occasional sex encounters with prostitutes." _The cabbie had indeed remained silent during the whole course, glancing alarmingly in his review mirror at his strange tall passenger while the shorter one was visibly having a hard time to refrain from laughing.

By 8:15 a.m., the taxi stopped at the desired address and Sherlock paid the fare as his friend busied himself with getting the suitcase and army bag out of the car. John was wondering how he would deal with the stairs with his bad leg (the limp was gone, but the doctor knew by experience it would remain frail for some time) while holding a heavy luggage, but the detective solved the problem by wordlessly grabbing the suitcase and climbing up the narrow steps, thus sparing John a lot of trouble. The blond man had a small smile: who said Sherlock Holmes was an indifferent man?

Sherlock's long strides made him reach the upper bedroom in record time and he deposed the suitcase on the floor with a satisfied sigh, not for being relieved of a burden but because he was happy John was actually settling back at 221 B. For three years the detective had been worried sick at the thought his only friend had gotten married and was practising medicine in the suburbs of London, bored out of his mind. Thankfully, it hadn't happened and the Baker Street duo was back, their return being the final nail in Moriarty's coffin.

"Sherlock?" called John's voice.

"Up here, John. I put your suitcase in your bedroom... Do you still want this room, or maybe you want to change?"

"Certainly not!" said the doctor, climbing the rest of the stairs with his army bag back slung over his shoulder. He loved this bedroom, which was almost as large as his former apartment; it had a beautiful hardwood floor, a comfy bed, a desk, an antique wardrobe made of solid oak and large windows letting in a lot of sunlight. "My leg won't mind a bit of exercise, provided you don't leave a decomposing brain on the steps just like last time."

"But it was for an experiment!"

"Nevertheless, Sherlock, I'd appreciate you tell me beforehand when you scatter human remains all over the stairs."

"Duly noted," said the detective. He went downstairs back to the living room, leaving John to unpack his things in peace, and checked his mobile phone. Another text from Mycroft – _Delete_ –, one from Lestrade about a murder case – _It could wait, probably another boring affair of a drug dealing gone bad_ –, one from DI Dimmock – _Well, well!_ _The young and ambitious inspector was trying to renew contact_ – and one from Anthea, Mycroft's PA – _Delete_.

Sherlock could hear John's soft humming from upstairs and it made him smile: his friend was already feeling at home. It reminded him to contact the owner of the _"Keep Movin' Co." _and ask him to pack the rest of the doctor's belongings and have them delivered at his new address in no time. It was paramount to erase in John's mind the souvenir of the seedy building he had to live in like an outcast, a mini-exile paralleling Sherlock's. No, John's place was at Baker Street, in a warm and roomy flat, in the company of the world's only consulting detective.

The younger Holmes had thought many times about a few home improvements he could do following his return to London: for example, he could buy another fridge for the kitchen to stock the body parts for experiments, leaving the bigger one for the food so loved by John. A dishwasher would be a good investment to avoid wasting time cleaning the crockery – and also, to avoid discussions each time Sherlock used a piece of china as a Petri dish. He could ask an upholsterer to repair John's favourite armchair; a new, thick rug in the upstairs bedroom would certainly be appreciated next winter. A hallstand, so they could grab their coats easily before running outside for a new case...

Sherlock's train of thoughts was stopped as he saw John's discarded jacket lying on the green leather couch. Yes, a hallstand would definitively be a good idea! At the same moment, a muffled buzzing sound could be heard coming from one of the jacket's pocket – John's mobile, by no doubts. Sherlock took the phone out of the garment with the intention to tell his friend he had a call, but then he frowned after reading the name displayed on the screen: _Harry_.

Sherlock never hesitated a second; he clicked on the phone and said:

"Hello."

"_Who is it?"_ asked the caller with a hint of aggressiveness, obviously not recognizing the deep baritone voice of the detective.

"Sherlock Holmes."

A stunned silence followed the presentation, but after twenty-six heartbeats the voice answered with a vengeance:

"_Who are you? How come you have my brother's phone?"_

"I've already told you who I am, and I'm answering John's phone because he happens to be my flatmate."

"_You're lying! Holmes was a fake detective who committed suicide years ago! And John doesn't have a flatmate!"_

"I was dead, but I got better and now I am back in London. John has agreed to share a flat with me again and he has finally moved out of that dump he had been forced to live in for too long, the consequence of having an egocentric sister."

"_What? You dare..."_

"Why, yes. What else am I supposed to call a woman who not only destroys herself with drink, but wants to take her brother along with her into the abyss? It wasn't enough you sent your parents to an early grave with your whims; no, you want to ruin your brother as well because he is, according to your narrow mind, the one responsible for all your troubles."

"_But..."_

"But, nothing. You've detested John since the day of his birth, simply because he is a male and not you. Later, you hated him for being kind and sensible and thus, you tried to play tough to show the whole world you were the real "boy" of the family. But the more ruckuses you made, the more people considered you a fool and turned their attention towards John. School didn't fare any better with teachers unimpressed by your attitude and you being constantly overshadowed by your quiet brother. John the good son, John the good student, and then John the good doctor dedicated to treat injured soldiers. His only flaw is that he loves his selfish, ungrateful and all-around detestable sister."

"_Bastard! You don't know what I've suffered! I was treated like a pariah because of my sexuality! I..."_

"Oh, don't try to play the lesbian martyr, it won't work with me. You're so insignificant people wouldn't notice if you dated aliens from outer space; even your high school classmates didn't gossiped about your liking for girls! Your vanity far exceeds your stupidity and, since the world doesn't evolve around your navel – much to your fury – you turned to the bottle thinking it would grant you some intelligence. Wrong!"

"_You..."_

"Bottom line, Harriet Watson: your great plan for destroying your brother has hit rock bottom. John is currently in financial distress thanks to you, but I have all intention to put the situation right. You are going to clean up your act, stop your attention-seeker act and get a job – but this is the last chance you'll ever get. John won't pay your debts any longer because **I**, as his friend, will make sure you'll never squeeze a penny out of him again with your emotional blackmail. And don't underestimate me: I came back from the dead so clinic walls won't be enough to stop me from scaring the Hell out of you."

"_No! Don't..."_

"Since calls are allowed at the clinic only from 3:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. and it's only 8:35 in the morning, logic tells me you have broken into a doctor's office to use his phone. So you'd better hang up and get out of here discreetly because consequences will be severe if you get kicked out of the clinic. I'm advising you to send a text to your brother this afternoon, and if you know what's good for you, you'll tell him there's no need to send you money. If you get bored, just re-read the old magazines you've stacked under your bed and quit smoking while you're at it – which is not a bad idea. Believe me, I know!"

"_What?"_

Sherlock terminated the connection, not unsatisfied with the solving of this peculiar problem. Harry Watson wasn't going to call her brother anytime soon to ask for money or another stay at an expensive rehab clinic, acting like a leech draining the life-force out of John again – the world's only consulting detective would make sure of it!

"Sherlock?" asked John from upstairs.

"Yes?"

"I thought I've heard you talking... Did you have a call?"

"Erm, yes... It was from Mycroft," said the detective quickly. He detested lying to John but some situations called for drastic actions. "It was a rather... tedious conversation, actually."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said John before resuming unpacking. Sherlock promptly erased all traces of Harry's call on the mobile phone and dropped the item on the couch with a movement of disgust.

* * *

><p>A few moments later, John had joined the detective to the living-room. Much to his astonishment, Sherlock had actually straightened up things a bit – the pile of old newspapers had been pushed to a corner, the tea set had been washed and the telly had been turned on, watched by an attentive detective seated on his appointed armchair, his fingers pressed against one another in his usual thinking-hard posture.<p>

"Hum, Sherlock? Why are you watching the nine o'clock news?"

"Oh, I'm just waiting for a report to show up; it shouldn't be long now..."

"About a case?"

"In a way, yes."

The doctor knew it was futile to bombard his friend with questions, so he lowered himself in the armchair facing Sherlock's and turned his attention towards the flat screen fixed on the living-room's wall. The broadcast news appeared quite ordinary: the economic crisis, the latest government's reshuffle, a football star signing a big contract to play in a foreign country. And then...

"_The case of a free-lance journalist suspected__ of __police bribery__ and improper influence over witnesses in the pursuit of publishing stories has arisen, causing a great distress in both the journalism profession and police forces," _announced the anchorwoman._ "Kitty Riley, who had acquired a reputation three years ago by stating that private detective Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, was arrested this morning on charge of having threatened a witness in the murder of schoolgirl Annie Deswell..."_

"Holy God!" exclaimed a startled John, while Sherlock kept his eyes on the telly's screen with an amused half-smile on his lips.

"_The witness, Mrs. Joyce Baxter, is an elderly widow who claimed having seen Annie Deswell climbing in the van of prime suspect Gerald Martins one hour before her dead body was found. Miss Riley bribed PC Raymond Stephenson for an exclusive interview of Martins in his holding cell, and then threatened Mrs. Baxter with loss of pension and bodily harm if she didn't forswear her testimony. Miss Riley's motive was apparently to publish an article accusing DI Gregory Lestrade, in charge of the Deswell murder, of incompetence and miscarriage of justice, resulting in the release of Martins. An anonymous tip led to the arrest of Miss Riley, and according to a police source information of interest has been found in her laptop..."_

The announcement was followed by images of Kitty Riley in tears, handcuffed and lead by PCs out of her house to a police car while dozens of her soon-to-be ex-colleagues were immortalizing the moment with flashing cameras. Kitty was desperately trying to hide her face in her hands, but to no avail. The image changed back for the anchorwoman on the set, who was concluding:

"_Miss Riley will be interrogated about her implication in the blackmail of Mrs. Baxter but she will also have to answer about her suspicious involvement in other cases, among them the death of Sherlock Holmes. Her accusations have led the private detective to commit suicide, causing uproar on the Internet; a movement of support towards Mr. Holmes' memory had remained steadfastly active over the years, following the last post of the blog of Doctor John Watson, Mr. Holmes' associate. Next, we have the interview of rock star Zombie Zoe about her upcoming concert..."_

Sherlock grabbed the remote and hit the "mute" button, while John was turning incredulous eyes towards him.

"How on Earth did you know Riley would be arrested? Oh, let me guess... Mycroft, right?"

"Elementary, my dear John: I knew Brother Dear has been collecting information about Kitty Riley during my absence and he wouldn't resist releasing a little scandal in the media as a _"Welcome home"_ present. No doubts that, during their inquiries and the thorough search of Kitty's laptop, the police will find out about her prior involvement with Moriarty and how her sleeping with a criminal mastermind has provided her with false data leading to my ultimate demise... Well, maybe she will use her time in prison to study a course about journalism ethics!"

"Oh, my God! But it not only means the accusations of you being a fraud will be lifted, but you'll be able to make a public announcement about your resurrection!"

"What for? I happen to know a zealous historian, who certainly wouldn't mind posting a message about my return on his abandoned-for-too-long blog, eh, John?"

"I'll certainly do it!" exclaimed the doctor, his ocean eyes shining in anticipation of posting the message of a lifetime.

Sherlock smiled, and then turned his attention towards a muffled sound downstairs: it was the creaking of the front door opening after somebody had turned a key inside the locking mechanism.

"Mrs. Hudson's back," said the younger Holmes.

"I'll go and prepare her about you being back; the shock could prove to be too hard for her nerves," answered John, rising from his armchair.

"Frankly, after the incident with the CIA killers, don't you know by now she's far more resilient than she looks?"

"Anyway, give me a minute before coming down. Doctor's orders!" shot John back without waiting for another objection from his friend.

* * *

><p>The blond man managed to rush downstairs without hurting his bad leg in the process, and indeed Mrs. Hudson had come home from Manchester: a small suitcase had been left in the entrance's hallway, mail had been picked up and set on a small console table and the dear woman's voice could be heard near her flat's door, over a rustling of keys:<p>

"Glad to be home – especially after having made this entire trip for nothing. Whatever possessed Glenda to reconcile with her worthless husband, anyway? And there I was, standing in the middle of the way while she and the idiot were busy kissing around! Next time Glenda has marital problems, don't count on me to go to Manchester and hold her hand... Oh, the beautiful flowers! John has come, the lovely man. I hope he wasn't too disappointed I deserted Sherlock's anniversary for a wild goose chase..."

"Mrs. Hudson?" called John softly from the stairs.

"Oh, John, you're here!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, still clad in her coat and holding her handbag.

John finished walking down the stairs, and then he greeted the landlady with a kiss on the cheek and a gentle hug: "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Did you have a nice trip?"

"It was dreadful, my dear boy. Three days of boredom at my sister's flat, sleeping on this horrid couch – I can't feel my hip – and she isn't divorcing from her "bitter" half, on top of everything! The only good time I had was in the train, reading your book. You have lots of talent, love, and your success is fully deserved. I hope you will write some more books?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I'm planning to; in fact, I am certain inspiration for new stories will come very soon..."

"Oh, how wonderful! I'm sorry I've left you alone to go to the cemetery but I will come with you anytime you went to."

"Actually, Mrs. Hudson, you and I don't need to go to this place."

The look on the woman's face would have been comical if John, as a physician, hadn't been concerned by her health.

"W-What do you mean, my dear? You don't want to visit Sherlock's grave anymore?

"There's no need, Mrs. Hudson. You and I will not cry and pray at his tombstone before, hopefully, a very long time. Three years ago, I've asked Sherlock to grant me one last miracle: I begged him to not be dead, to come back because I didn't think I'd be able to return to my former life of emptiness, struggling with a limp and plagued with war dreams..."

"Oh, honey..."

"But finally, after three years of wait, my wish has been granted. Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock is back."

The landlady looked at John with rounded eyes, making her do an imitation of a surprised owl, but the creaking of a step made her turn about and she let out a cry of surprise: the younger Holmes was indeed here, standing at the bottom of the stairs, gently smiling at her.

"SHERLOCK!"

The world's unique consulting detective suddenly found himself with an armful of a landlady squeezing the life out of him like an octopus, kissing his face repetitively (and noisily) whilst praising God, Jesus and all the members of the heavenly host for his return. The younger Holmes, blushing to the roots of his dark curly hair, silently pleaded John to get him out from this affectionate whirlwind but the doctor was too busy laughing his head off to be of any help. Besides, thought John, Sherlock owed Mrs. Hudson three years of tears so it was payback time!

"Oh, Sherlock, my darling! Where have you been? (kiss) Don't you know John has been devastated by your death? He was in tears when he told me about you falling from that (kiss) roof! I ought to scold you, you naughty boy (kiss) but I'm too happy for that. But you are too thin, my dear! When are you going to (kiss) eat properly? Oh, my little angel, I'm so glad to see you again! (kiss) Your rooms are intact; I just aired them from time to time and (kiss) your brother kindly paid the rent but I would have kept them the way they were (kiss) anyway... Are you going to move back in, dearest? Oh, of course you will, silly question! (kiss) And with John, otherwise you'll be sad... What a joy! Both my boys are home!"

"Er... Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," managed to croak out Sherlock, looking completely at a loss from this outburst of affection – but apparently not unpleased.

"John, come here! I need to hug you both!"

The blond man obliged and he was promptly engulfed in an embrace shared with his friend and his landlady. Mrs. Hudson reminded him of his own mother with her open heart and gentle soul, and she had been a rock while John had been grieving for Sherlock; she had never believed a word of the "fraud" accusations – creating a rift with Mrs. Turner next door after she had hinted that Sherlock _might_ had faked his deductive powers – and she had proclaimed all over the neighbourhood her pride of having been the landlady of the most amazing man the world had ever seen. Mrs. Hudson was truly a gem!

"The angel and the saint are back in Baker Street. All is well!" purred Mrs. Hudson, tightening her embrace.

Her words made a detective and a doctor blush a deep shade of red and, in a spontaneous movement, both men kissed Mrs. Hudson's face and whispered in the same voice:

"Fairy godmother!"

The trio remained embraced for a long time, savouring the complicity and affection reigning in 221 B Baker Street, a sweet moment of warmth against the harshness of the outside world. Alas, the said world crashed in with a vengeance with a sharp pressing of the doorbell, followed by the pushing open of the front door and the letting in of a woman wearing a PC uniform.

"Hey, Freak!" said the voice of Sally Donovan as she shambled in the entrance's hallway. "Bring your ass over here; Lestrade wants you at the Yard for..."

"OH, YOU!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, breaking from Sherlock's and John's embrace in a sudden movement of rage. "HOW DARE YOU SHOW YOUR FACE TO MY HOUSE!"

"What? But..." sputtered Donovan.

"You think I wouldn't recognize you?" growled Mrs. Hudson, looking absolutely furious. "But I damn well remember your ugly mug! You're the one who came in with that ingrate Lestrade to arrest _**my**_ boy after accused him of having kidnapped those poor children, and now you have the nerve to come back and insult him again, and under _**my**_ roof! Three years ago I wanted to slap that smug smile off your face and by God, this is going to happen, right now!"

"No! Mrs. Hudson!" exclaimed John, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

"You can't touch me! I'm a police constable!" protested Donovan.

"Is that supposed to scare me?" shouted Mrs. Hudson. "Besides, you are a dishonour to this uniform! Looks like your superiors can't understand what kind of a woman you really are: embittered, jealous and a slanderer; otherwise, they would have kicked you out of the Force years ago! Oh, and by the way, you looked fantastic on that photograph with your panties hanging from your ankle!"

"Mrs. Hudson, please!" John made a movement to stop the enraged landlady but Sherlock's hand on his arm stopped him.

"It wasn't me on the photo! I-I was framed!"

"Framed, my foot! Now get out or there will be Hell to pay! Sherlock and John will come to the Yard whenever they want to; and no one, not even the Queen, gives orders inside my house, do you hear me? OUT!"

"But..!"

Mrs. Hudson grabbed at something discarded in one of the hallway's corners and John realised it was a broom; his eyes widened while Sherlock softly chuckled, as if he knew in advance what was going to happen.

"I said, OUT! And stay away from my boys!" shouted Mrs. Hudson, holding the broom like a club.

_*Whack*_ CLONK!

"Ow! You crazy old witch!" yelled Donovan after the broomstick barely missed her head before hitting the wall.

"Call me names, will you?"

_*Whack* _CLONK!_ *Whack*_ CLONK! _*Whack* _CLONK!

Donovan screamed in outrage as the broomstick dented the hallway's wallpaper three more times, the housekeeping weapon zooming way too close from her head and limbs. Finally realizing she was in danger of being bashed by an irritated little old lady waving a broom, Donovan opted for a prompt retreat but not before yelling at Sherlock:

"Call her off, Freak!"

"I don't know how," answered the younger Holmes calmly.

"**Who's a freak?**" roared Mrs. Hudson, aiming for the PC's head once again. The blow hit the front door instead and Donovan ran outside screaming. She hardly had the time to climb inside the police car and shout her colleague behind the wheel to step on it before the broom was hurled out of 221 B, landing loudly against the car; without further ado, the vehicle drove out of Baker Street in a dark cloud of fumes coming out of the silencer, much to the astonishment of passers-by and Mr. Chatterjee, the Pakistani owner of "Speedy's", who was looking at the whole scene behind the sparkling-clean window of his restaurant.

"Moriarty said every tale needed a good villain, but he forgot all about the fairy godmother," said Sherlock while looking at Mrs. Hudson retrieving her belonging in the street.

"Aren't fairy godmothers supposed to have magic wands, or something?" asked John. He was both horrified and elated by the landlady's actions but it would never cross his mind to criticize them: the respectable doctor had punched a Chief Superintendent right on the nose following Sherlock's arrest, after all.

"Mrs. Hudson's way too energetic to content herself with a wand, and a broom is the perfect item to get rid of undesirables. _Du balai!_" concluded Sherlock.

TBC...


	13. Home is where the heart is

**Disclaimer: **same as Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

- The last chapter! I'd like to express my thanks to all my wonderful readers and reviewers.

- This chapter is dedicated to LienaGrace.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12: Home is where the heart is<strong>

The rest of the morning was spent in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, drinking tea and enjoying homemade biscuits. John apologized for having raided their landlady's fridge last night for an impromptu meal before entrapping Moran, but Mrs. Hudson answered with a light clucking which accented her resemblance to a mother-hen. She said they needed their strength before catching _"such a terrible wrongdoer, who deserves to be in jail"_ and she wasn't worried about a few loaves of bread and some ham. Sherlock had to re-tell his adventures across the world from the very beginning, punctuated by _"Oohs"_ from the dear woman (much to the detective's embarrassment) while Mrs. Hudson repeatedly described John's despair over his friend's demise (much to the doctor's embarrassment).

The doorbell rang a few times during this gentle reunion, mostly journalists and photographers trying to get the first picture of Sherlock's return but they were instantly told off by Mrs. Hudson, who shouted from the doorstep that her house wasn't a circus and she refused to let in _"hypocritical forked-tongued pen-pushers, who wrote horrible things about Sherlock Holmes when they should have known better"_. A journalist, evoking freedom of the press, tried to barge in and got acquainted with Mrs. Hudson's broom after the instrument whacked him sharply on the leg – strangely enough, the doorbell-ringing stopped following this incident.

John was worried about getting any grocery shopping done with that herd camping out of 221 B, but Sherlock shrugged and suggested using Tesco's on-line services and have the food and goods delivered. After all, they would be busy cleaning up the flat and getting rid of old stuff; they couldn't waste time at the supermarket. For once, John agreed because he also had pressing matters to do: calling St. Bart's for his absence, write a spectacular message to update his blog, send money to Harry... And deep down he was looking forward to enjoy Sherlock's presence all day, something he had longed for three years.

Mrs. Hudson made them sandwiches and fried eggs for lunch, and her favourite tenants promised to treat her for a dinner at Angelo's once the racket over Sherlock's resurrection would have quieted down. Then, the younger Holmes wasted no time straightening the usual clutter in the living-room; he kept the old newspapers' articles mentioning Moriarty, with the intention to create a file about his nemesis, but threw the rest in the fireplace. The Stradivarius was lovingly dusted and tuned; papers, archive boxes and old letters were stacked on a corner of the shared desk; a phone call to the _"Keep movin'"_ company quickly concluded a deal and John's stuff would be delivered at Baker Street first thing next morning; another call to the doctor's former landlord advised him he had just lost a very good tenant. John borrowed Mrs. Hudson's vacuum cleaner and soon the furniture, carpets and hardwood floors exhaled in satisfaction – much to Sherlock's dismay, since he would have loved to keep some of the three-year-old dust for experiments but his friend told him that new house dust wouldn't be difficult to acquire; the refrigerator purred back to life after being plugged into its designated socket. Beds were made with linen freshly washed by Mrs. Hudson who stated that, even though she wasn't their housekeeper, she refused to let them sleep in dusty bed sheets. Javel water and elbow grease took care of the bathroom.

By mid-afternoon, the flat was readied just in time to receive the food and housekeeping items ordered on the Tesco website; the deliveryman was a bit put off by the broom-holding woman, Yorick the human skull on the chimney's mantel and the presence of a famous man supposedly dead, but he had seen worse things on the job – and a tip from John put his mind at ease.

The detective and the doctor then enjoyed a cup of tea with milk for John and sugared coffee for Sherlock before resuming their cleaning-up. Mrs. Hudson had chuckled it looked like two birds building a nest, making both men blush a deep shade of red once again! Luckily, a phone call from Mrs. Turner saved them from further teasing and the landlady spent the next two hours telling her neighbour again and again about the return of "her boys". Harry had sent a text to her brother, asking him to not send her money because she had decided to stop smoking; the doctor, engrossed in the lecture of the message, missed Sherlock's amused smile while he was telling him the good news out loud.

* * *

><p>Around 5:00 p.m., John typed a new message as the proud herald of the detective's return. As on cue, his blog's meter went crazy from the booming number of comments posted right after the announcement but the blond man refrained from answering; instead, he went to the kitchen and started cooking fried chicken with risotto – the one Sherlock's called <em>"John's special risotto"<em>, which was a dish the younger Holmes ate without his usual declaration about nutrition was a waste of time. Sherlock, who was avidly re-reading his pile of documentation, inhaled the delicious smells coming from the kitchen and it gave him an idea about tying up a loose end:

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Would you mind if someone comes for dinner tonight?"

"Of course not! You want to invite Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, I was thinking about somebody else but we could invite her as well, provided there is enough of your risotto for four persons."

"It can be arranged," said John with a smile. "You'd like Mycroft to come along?"

"Good grief! NO!" exclaimed an horrified detective.

"Then, who?"

Sherlock retrieved his mobile phone on the desk and checked on his messages; eleven new ones had arrived since they had started cleaning up the flat: three from Mycroft (delete), one from Anthea (forget it), one from Donovan (get lost), one from Anderson (so long), one from Dimmock (keep it for later) and four from Lestrade (ah-ha!). Sherlock opened the texts sent by the DI: the first one was a boring expression of his thanks for being credited for the capture of Colonel Moran; idem for the second one; the next message was a warning about the news of Sherlock's return being leaked to the press and how the journalists would invade Baker Street (poor Lestrade, always running late); and the fourth was another grateful one, for having saved him from Kitty Riley's slander about the schoolgirl murder's case (keeping Lestrade on the up and up and getting rid of that nosey journalist: talk about killing two birds with one stone!).

"Actually, I was thinking about Lestrade," said the younger Holmes.

John put down the wooden spoon he was using to stir the rice and stepped out of the kitchen.

"Why do you want to invite him?"

"I thought it would be a good occasion for you and him to reconcile. He came early this morning to make amends about his stupid behaviour during the Bruht kidnapping and I accepted his apology. He wanted to make it up to you, too, but you were asleep and I didn't want to disturb you."

John rested his forehead on the kitchen's doorframe and thought about it for a minute. He had mixed feelings about the situation: a part of him was still angry at Lestrade but, since Sherlock had returned from the dead and had accepted the DI's excuses, there were no reasons for the doctor to keep on bearing a grudge. John had been very unhappy about his estrangement with Lestrade but the pain of Sherlock's fall had been too raw and he didn't trust himself from not hitting the policeman. But his miracle had been granted: Sherlock was alive, he was back in London and the joy of his living presence couldn't be tarnished with rancour.

"Okay, Sherlock. Invite him, I'll be glad to make peace. Lestrade must have been beating himself up for three years so it's high time this rift should be closed."

The blond man went back to the kitchen to add some extra rice in the pan while the detective typed the invitation on his mobile phone. Sherlock had no doubts his friend would forgive Lestrade but, out of respect for his feelings, he had let John take the decision to invite the DI for dinner. The doctor's heart was like the ocean: too deep to be measured, and with treasures lying in wait for the audacious.

As he sent the message, Sherlock had a small grimace at the thought of a woman, more intelligent than the others, who would actually realize what a diamond John was and she would want to keep him for life. It was useless to deny it: John was kind-hearted, handsome with a hint of adorableness, and practising medicine. A very eligible bachelor for any sensible woman and, unfortunately, there were a few smart people remaining in this world!

But it was better to enjoy the present: Sherlock had his life back, his reputation restored, and he had his friend. He couldn't ask for a better denouement after the tragic case of the Reichenbach Falls.

* * *

><p>The early evening saw a kitchen table dressed for four persons with a Mrs. Hudson beaming in pleasure at the seat of honour; Sherlock had agreed to stack his lab instruments in a corner for the evening, leaving the worktop free for John's cooking. The dishes were mismatched, sheets of paper towels were employed instead of napkins and the cutlery was a bit dented but Mrs. Hudson declared she hadn't seen such a beautiful dressing in years. A short ring of the doorbell was heard just as John was finishing preparing the salad; Mrs. Hudson made the movement to get up and see who it was, but Sherlock kept her seated with a firm hand on her shoulder.<p>

"There's no need to go, Mrs. Hudson. It's Lestrade; this is his signal before entering since he has the key. We invited him for dinner, as well."

"The Police Inspector? Oh darling, I thought you were crossed at him."

"Well, he came early this morning and he recognized the errors of his ways, so I accepted his apology. But he wants to make amends with John as well and a dinner is the best way to reconcile, isn't it?"

"How right you are! Especially over a plate of this deliciously-smelling risotto; John, dearest, will you give me the recipe?"

"Sure thing!" said the cook with a smile.

The front door opened and the loud voice of DI Gregory Lestrade was overheard from the hubbub created by the questions of stubborn journalists camping outside on the sidewalk:

"Get lost, the goddamned bunch of you! If I ever catch one of you losers trying to step foot inside this house, I'll haul your ass downtown to the station so fast it will make your head swim."

"Language!" murmured Mrs. Hudson.

A concert of protests followed the DI's statement but the banging of the front door cut short to any attempt of home invasion. Footsteps made the seventeen steps of the staircase creak under the weight of a visitor, and then Lestrade walked in the living-room with a bottle of wine in hand.

"Ahem... Hi!" said the DI, looking a bit embarrassed at the three persons waiting for him. "Sorry for the outburst, but those journalists wouldn't let me pass unless I would give an interview about Sherlock's return and Kitty Riley's arrest. Bloodsucking leeches, the whole lot of them!"

"Never mind," answered the younger Holmes, gratefully accepting the wine. Then he pulled on the windows' curtains to make sure their dinner wouldn't be witnessed by a reporter hiding in Camden House; it would be a sad twist of fate if the detective would be spied upon by someone using the same trick he had used to entrap Colonel Moran!

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," said Lestrade.

"Oh hello, dear," answered the landlady, getting on her feet to greet the policeman effusively. "Please take off your coat and make yourself at home, it is so nice of you to have accepted Sherlock's invitation. John has made us a fantastic dinner and you've brought wine so we'll make toasts, how thoughtful of you! And thank you for telling off those wrenched journalists; one of them tried to enter here without permission, can you believe it? Well, this rascal isn't going to do it again any time soon, I made sure of that, but I'm not sure for the rest of his colleagues. A big scary detective from Scotland Yard like you is certainly be more impressive than my broomstick..."

As Mrs. Hudson kept on rambling about the journalists, Lestrade turned towards John, who was watching him from the kitchen.

"Er... Hello, John."

"Greg," answered the doctor, wiping his hands with a clean dishtowel.

There was an awkward silence between the two men, while Sherlock tried to open the wine bottle without being distracted by Mrs. Hudson's abundant advice about the best way to use a corkscrew, and then Lestrade tried to speak but John stopped him before he could start to utter a word:

"I know, Greg."

"You know?" repeated Lestrade, a bit surprised.

"I know how sorry you are about the whole Bruht fiasco and Moriarty. Sherlock told me all about the visit you've paid us, early this morning."

Lestrade took a quick look at the detective, who had managed to pop open the bottle and was pouring wine in the glasses. Sherlock glanced back, and then resumed to his sommelier's duties without adding a comment.

"Yes, well, you were sleeping so I could only talk to Sherlock," said the DI, omitting the fact he had witnessed John being cradled in the younger Holmes' arms. "That's why I was glad to receive this invitation to dinner because not only I wanted to thank you for Moran and Riley, you saved my ass twice in a day and I don't know how to repay you for this; but also... well, I wanted a chance to apologize to you in person. I don't blame you for avoiding me during Sherlock's "absence". I... Like I've said this morning, I don't know what possessed me to listen to Donovan and Anderson. I have no excuses but I've been sorry ever since. And when I had to arrest Sherlock, God knows I've hated myself... But it was too late, I couldn't stop anything. Good thing you escaped, though, otherwise you both would have been lynched in prison. Frankly, I wouldn't have minded a punch on the nose, just like you did to the Chief Superintendant, I would have deserved it."

John reached out his hand and Lestrade recoiled a bit, but relaxed as he saw the doctor's gentle smile:

"It is fine, Lestrade; it's all fine, really. After Sherlock's demise, I couldn't hear or watch anything related to crime and police forces because... It was too hard, simply more than I could bear. I admit I've been mad at you but I realized you have been fooled by Moriarty like everyone else. I just didn't trust myself to not hit you nonetheless, and it would have ruined any further attempts of rebuilding our friendship. I didn't shun you out of anger, but to protect you from me. Now, since Sherlock is back home, safe and sound, let bygone be bygones, okay?"

The reconciliation was sealed with a firm handshake and a cheer from Mrs. Hudson; then Sherlock announced dinner was served and latecomers would be blamed for the food getting cold. The three men and the woman were promptly seated and helped themselves with large pieces of chicken, spoonfuls of risotto and the salad. The wine was praised, as well as its bringer and the cook, and a round of toasts was called upon to celebrate their joyful reunion.

"To Sherlock Holmes, the Prince of detectives!" said John over a clinking of glasses.

"To John Watson, talented doctor and writer!" retorted Sherlock.

"To the crime-fighting duo of Baker Street!" said Lestrade, genuinely happy of having being forgiven.

"To Greg Lestrade, the only competent DI of Scotland Yard!" exclaimed Sherlock.

"To my boys!" called Mrs. Hudson.

"To the best landlady the world has ever known!" said John.

"To Mr. Lestrade, who defended my house!" said Mrs. Hudson.

"To you guys and thank you for allowing me to be part of the legend!" answered Lestrade.

Toasts succeeded to toasts, the food was eaten and complimented, and then it was dessert, coffee, more dessert, exchanging stories in the living-room over another round of tea and coffee, served with Mrs. Hudson's home-made biscuits and the rest of a forgotten bottle of scotch Sherlock had found in a cupboard. The dinner lasted until midnight and then, Lestrade remembered he had to go to the office in the morning; he got on his feet a bit unsteadily and said he would walk Mrs. Hudson to her flat, a proposition which prompted a fit of giggles from the slightly-inebriated landlady but she accepted his offer.

Sherlock called for a cab to drive the DI safely home; Lestrade shook his hand, thanked him again for all the credit he had received from Moran's capture and Riley's disgrace, and Mrs. Hudson kissed the younger Holmes on the nose – something Lestrade found absolutely hilarious. The policeman and the landlady walked down the stairs arm-in-arm, giggling all the way, sharing comments about the good dinner and laughing their heads off at the thought of being arrested by an imaginary constable for using a staircase under the influence.

Sherlock rolled his eyes heavenwards at the DI and the landlady's antics, and then he returned his attention towards his friend: John was dozing in his armchair, vanquished by his moving back to 221 B and the late dinner.

"John?" called Sherlock softly.

"Hum? Oh, hi," said the sleepy doctor. "Are they gone?"

"Yes, finally! They're good persons but I thought they would stay until sunrise. Lestrade really doesn't know when to leave but, since he has promised to supply us with cases, I'll override his shortcomings. But you look all in, Doctor! It's high time you reintegrate your real bedroom for a richly-deserved rest."

"Not yet, we have to clean up the mess in the kitchen and living-room," protested John half-heartily.

"You leave that boring stuff to me, I won't sleep for hours and I need to stay occupied. Maybe I'll start compiling articles for the file on Moriarty, or sort out this pile of letters and even update my website while I'm at it. You need your rest, John, especially since you have to go back to work tomorrow morning; I don't think your patients at St. Bart's will appreciate you deserting them for two days in a row."

John was too tired to argue and besides, his friend had a valid point; he couldn't neglect his duties at St. Bart's any further, people there needed his help and explaining his absence by the return of a dead friend, the capture of a notorious criminal and an impromptu moving would be quite a palaver.

"All right, you've got a point. Try to get some rest as well, okay, Sherlock? Good night."

"Good night, my dear blogger."

* * *

><p>One hour later, Sherlock was in his bedroom, donning his grey pyjamas and his deep blue bathrobe once again. True to his word, he had cleaned the kitchen (dumped the dirty dishes in the sink, since he wasn't in the mood to wash them) and straightened the living-room (more or less, he would do better by sunlight) but he had changed his mind about going through papers or surfing on the Internet. No, a better idea had formed in his mind and he was going to execute it at once.<p>

Barefooted, the detective headed for the stairs leading to the other bedroom. The whole building was silent, even Baker Street was calm – the journalists, fed up with waiting, had left at long last – and the only sounds that could be heard were the occasional car driving down the street or the roaring of a bus in the background. Sherlock, as sure-footed as any cat, made absolutely no noise climbing up the stairs and within minutes, he had reached John's bedroom. A slight push opened the door and he looked fondly at his friend, wrapped in blankets and fast asleep in his freshly-made bed, completely worn out by the day's events. John's features were illuminated by the moonlight pouring from the windows, making his face look like as if it had been carved in silver. A prideful smile spread on Sherlock's lips as he made out the contours of the laptop set on the desk along with the framed photos, the clothes on the chair, the discarded shoes on the floor, the watch ticking on the bedside table. Yes, John was truly home, where he belonged: in this bedroom, in this flat, in this house.

Sherlock never hesitated: he gently climbed on the bed to lie on top of the covers, and gathered the sleeping John in his arms. He had done this many times before in the pre-Reichenbach era, mostly to comfort the doctor after a nasty war dream but this time, it was the detective that needed reassurance. He would not admit it out loud but those past three years had been a terrible ordeal to him: chasing criminals around the globe, escaping death a hundred times, sleeping in seedy hotels, freezing to death in Russia or dying of thirst in Africa... No, it hadn't been a prolonged vacation and the only thing that had kept Sherlock focused on his mission in spite of hardships had been the thought he was keeping his friend safe from Moriarty's lieutenants by neutralizing them, one after another.

John curled up against Sherlock's side like a kitten, and rested his face against the brunette's neck. Even asleep, the doctor could sense when his friend was nearby, watching over him and his slumber wouldn't be disturbed by nightmares. Sherlock tightened his hold and blanket-bundled John answered with a sigh, followed by gentle snores. All was quiet and well in Baker Street, London had regained its guardians and the Napoleon of crime's shadow was definitively lifted from the world.

But the only thing that mattered for the younger Holmes was the man trusting him to guard his sleep, the one who meant everything to him: _**his**_ John, his breathing heart, the living embodiment of the old saying, _"__Home is where the heart is"._

Except that, in Sherlock's case, it was more appropriate to say: _"Holmes is where the heart is."_

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.

The dark angel and the golden saint.

THE END!


End file.
